


Repeat After Me

by ReadingBlueWolf



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crime, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Murder, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mystery, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 23:04:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 35,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13580808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReadingBlueWolf/pseuds/ReadingBlueWolf
Summary: Cora's just getting the hang of being an assistant when the Prime Minister is kidnapped. She's not sure she entirely trusts Mr Holmes—nor his deranged brother—but she's left with no choice as the past comes back to haunt them.





	1. A Peculiar Offer

As if the asylum hadn't been torture enough.

White smoke drifts towards the clouds above seeking penitence. What the offence had been only time could tell. Perhaps it was due to the psych ward. Perhaps it was due to a cattle dog comment. Or perhaps it was none of those, but some much fouler offence.

What's odd is the way the flat is burnt to a crisp. The surrounding structures have taken damage, but they'll be restored relatively quickly. There is no salvaging the top. Its appearance now creates an illusion as if the building never had a second floor, as if it's always stood with only two.

Fire brigades hustle about, making absolutely certain the blaze will not flare to life again. Even though the white smoke could be considered a safety sign, they take no risks. Emergency services roam the street searching for any of those who are displaced to confirm they're not injured. Their job would be far easier provided residents of the area didn't fill the road in droves, quietly discussing and judging what took place.

The clouds above finally begin to release droplets far too late to be of any help. If anything, they make the situation worse. Not only does it seem like some kind of cruel joke that they would choose now to send water, but everyone out in the street will be soaked in minutes.

And there she stands, near an ambulance, brown slick hair hanging down her back and around her soot-smudged face, in nothing but a t-shirt and long pyjama trousers. In her hands, she grips her only remaining possessions: several odd  _American Girl_  books, and the mobile phone she's currently using to text Mycroft Holmes that she will no longer be his assistant effective  _immediately_.

_~16 months ago~_

Humming softly, Cora skips down the steps and pulls out her Oyster Card. Making her way through an entry gate, she heads to the escalators and digs through her handbag. Pulling out an iPod, she puts one earphone in, hits play and gives a soft smile to its scratched screen. After nearly a decade of serenading her, it's still going strong.

Good thing, too, since she wouldn't be able to afford another.

When she enters the train, she's pleased to see she has the car to herself. It's not a terribly huge surprise given the time of night, but it is something she thoroughly enjoys. Biting her bottom lip, Cora slumps into a seat and bobs her head to the music as she pulls lip balm from her bag.

" _Who, who, who, who?"_  she softly sings as she coats her chapped lips before returning the tube to her bag. " _I took the tube back out of town, back to the rollin' pin…"_

Turning sideways, she props her tired feet on the seat next to her and leans against the metal behind her. Normally, Cora would consider her behaviour rude, but in light of the empty train and the pain she's in, it's barely a concern. Despite the supportive trainers she sports, her legs constantly ache from running around the restaurant for hours on end. The pain is dull and constant making her feel three times older than she actually is.

There is a piece of her, on the contrary, that suspects her feet only ache, because she's not thrilled with life. If she could change her circumstances, she's certain everything would be different.

Shaking the thought from her head, Cora pulls a book from her bag. She runs a hand gingerly over the cover. It's her only escape from the mundane, and she finds that a tad sad. Who wants to spend their life at a dead-end job they hate? A place where they barely make enough to survive on, and can never truly live or explore beyond their door.

_Even Disney posed the idea of adventure in the great wide somewhere_ , she thinks.

With a sigh, she opens to her bookmark, and begins to read:  _It is in some ways…_

There's something about the sound and feel of the tale that Cora loves. She greets it like an old friend, knowing what it will say, but still wanting to know everything about it that she can. It enchants her and lulls her into its short depths, drowning out the mundane.

That is, until the lights in the carriage flicker.

She looks around to see it's still only her, alone, in the car. Pursing her lips, she turns back to the book with a shrug. Unless something worse happens, she has no need to worry. She'll arrive at her stop soon enough.

When the lights go out, however, she stands and walks to the door.  _What in the world?_  she questions, looking outside and pulling the earphone out. The train has completely stopped with emergency lights flickering along the track.

" _It is in some ways more troublesome to track and swat an evasive wasp…_ "

The voice has her turning before the emergency lights inside begin to glow. Cora's head tilts to the side as she discovers a man in a three-piece suit settled in a seat behind her. He's looking at the tip of the umbrella in his hand as if it's the most fascinating thing in the world. She gives the area another glance, but it's only him.

_When did he get on?_

"… _than to shoot, at close range, a wild elephant_ ," he continues as he gazes at his umbrella.

Cora's brow quirks. How could he possibly know she was reading that _exact_  line in her book? She pinches herself—hard.  _Maybe this is just a dream._

The man leans back against the seat. "Except you aren't quite the wasp, are you, Ms Merriman?"

Clutching the book to her chest, she takes a closer look at the stranger. His dark hair is slightly receding, and small lines crease his forehead. She tenses when his dark eyes— _predatory_  eyes—flick to hers. It reminds her of a lion stalking its prey. With nowhere to run, Cora decides he might as well strike. After all, she's literally trapped in the metal box with a man as dangerous as Hannibal Lecter.

And she is certain she's  _never_  met him.

"Tell me," he says, "will you continue to allow that man to overwork you and underpay you for all your days, or were you hoping to get out from the insurmountable debt attached to your name?"

The comment sucks the air out of her chest.  _How does he know that?_  Clearing her throat, she straightens up. "Forgive me, but I don't believe that's any of your business."

He looks to the umbrella leaning against his leg. "Never would have assumed you'd turn down a life-changing opportunity."

"Again, I don't believe—"

"It is an exceedingly foolish option, Ms Merriman."

She shakes her head. "Even if there was an op—"

"I'm offering you an opportunity. Something a bit steadier than being a server in what barely passes for a restaurant. Nevertheless, you would rather stay in that uncomfortable comfort zone you've grown accustomed to…"

Cora doesn't respond. Partly, because she's overwhelmed with what he's said. Mainly, because she's certain he'll interrupt again. She considers it easier to wait for this man to elaborate.

He looks at her, the hint of a smirk on his face as if he believes he's just won the battle. "A car will be by to pick you up Monday morning."

Taking a deep breath, she works on slowing her racing thoughts so she can analyze the situation. Maybe a new job  _is_  what she needs. Maybe she can finally move out on her own. That would be exhilarating. However, she isn't quite sure what he's offering.

What's more, who would give  _her_  the time of day?

Cora leans against the train door, putting some weight against it to see if it'll give. "I hardly believe this an opportunity someone would readily offer just anyone."

"Precautions have allowed you to survive, I see," he says with a gentle nod. "However, you are correct. This  _isn't_  an opportunity for just anyone."

The implication of his words are clear, yet, he doesn't truly know her. So, before she can dash his hopes—or more importantly her own—she shakes her head. "I can't help you."

"Can't or won't?"

"Can't."

His brow quirks as he tilts his head slightly. "Won't is the more appropriate word here, since you've not heard the offer."

"Sir, it's not that I wouldn't want to, but," she objects and her shoulders slump with a sigh, "I have no skills."

"Skills can be taught. It's not incredibly difficult to be an assistant."

There's a small bubble that begins to grow in her stomach. Cora isn't quite sure what it could be, but hope would be her guess. Still, she knows nothing is ever as it seems. "Why go through all this trouble to find me?"

One brow raises as his gaze meets hers.

"You've locked me in a train, at a very late hour. You expect me to take this position and get into a car on Monday to a place where I haven't the slightest idea of what's to come." Cora knows she's being exceedingly asinine to entertain the prospect of taking this man at his word. A man whose name she does not know nor does she know what he wants with her. "I can't help but feel as if I'll end up on Crimewatch—here and in the States."

He regards her for several long seconds—twenty-three to be precise. Cora isn't sure what he's searching for, or if he'll murder her here and now, but either way, she wipes her sweaty palms on her apron and waits for his response.

"Fair enough, Ms Merriman," he finally replies and stands, leaning slightly on his umbrella. "Recommendations are whispered through grape vines. Recommendations that don't matter to this restaurant. Not only are you exhausted by the daily grind, you're bored with the life you live, even if you won't admit it aloud. It's too mediocre for your tastes. Not that you're looking for something exotic. You're simply looking for something that keeps your interest. I can offer you that."

Cora crosses her arms and shifts between the heels and balls of her tired feet. She does have to admit he is right that she wishes for more. "Who are you?"

Standing straight, he merely looks at her as if she should have some idea.

"You're definitely not Scotland Yard," she surmises.

"No," he agrees. "Though if I was, perhaps they'd solve a few more crimes."

Slipping her book into her bag, her gaze flicks around the stopped train. "I'd say you work for the Tube, but then, why would you need me?"

"You're getting closer, Ms Merriman. I assure you, I mean no harm," he says before she can formulate that fear in her mind. "This  _is_  fun, however. Do continue."

Drawing in a breath, she looks him over. She isn't sure if he's being sarcastic or not. Before she can continue questioning him, she feels her phone vibrating in her back pocket.

"You needn't answer unless you wish to speak with  _another_  creditor."

Her eyes narrow in a scrunch as her head turns to the side.  _At one in the morning, it's far too late for…_

Pulling her mobile from her pocket, she glances to see it is, in fact, someone looking to collect. Cora can't stop her jaw from gaping like a fish in need of water, nor the slight gasp at his correct guess. Slipping the phone back into her pocket, she forces herself to close her mouth and clear her throat.

"Should you agree to work for me, that will desist. You're in financial trouble, owing quite a substantial amount. All your hard efforts to get back on your feet have led you down a nasty path."

_What the hell?_  Cora looks at him, her brows lowering, but lips pressed tightly together. He knows far more than he should for someone who needs a personal assistant.

"As of right now, you're also obligated to Ms Wilkins, are you not?"

She bites the inside of her cheek.

"Sharing a flat can be entertaining," he continues and swings his umbrella in a loop, "until she brings home a male friend which keeps you up all night, which makes you bolt your door just in case."

A shiver runs up her spine. "Say this was indeed fact, how would you know any of it?"

He sighs. "I was rather hoping you'd have pieced it together by now."

Cora huffs a sigh and runs through the information again.  _Can stop a train. Knows where I live, work, and how I feel about both. Knows how to find me._

She blinks and softly snaps her fingers. "The government."

"I occupy a minor role, yes."

"I didn't know minor roles required secretaries—"

"Assistants," he corrects.

"—And are able to have access to a person's history," she continues as if he hadn't spoken. With a soft breath, she thinks to herself,  _It's nothing minor, I bet._

He doesn't reply, merely looks at her as he leans forward on his umbrella.

She slowly moves towards him, halting a few steps away.  _What part of my soul will I have to sell?_ she wonders. "What do you require?"

"I have no intentions of harming you, Ms Merriman."

Cora bites her bottom lip. She knows better than that. Everything costs something. "What would I have to give up in return?"

He gives a partial smirk. "The cost is not as high as you might think, Ms Merriman."

Her brow arches high. "What's pricey to me is not pricey to you."

"Don't be too sure about that." His smirk grows and lights his black treacle-coloured eyes. "Monday, then?"

Her attention is drawn to the soft squeal as the train starts moving again. Looking at the man, she takes a breath. "May I have your name now?"

A small grin appears on the right side of his face. In his eyes, it seems as if he's just won an even bigger battle. One that she isn't certain if she should be frightened of.

"Mycroft Holmes," he says as the train comes to a stop at her station. "Your previous job will be given notice of your departure. A car will be by to pick you up at six Monday morning. Dress professionally."

Giving a nod, Cora exits the train and wonders if she just made the right decision.


	2. Conditions

Cora believes she should be more tired than she is. Honestly, she's simply curious to see if this place will provide a more stable income than the restaurant. If anything, perhaps it will give her more experience for her CV, and she'll be able to truly leave waitressing behind.

As she eats her Ricicles, she considers if breakfast is the best option when she feels so jittery. Her stomach is already beginning to toss and turn mimicking her sleepless nights. Despite it being considered the most important meal of the day, she debates if it truly is.

"What are you doing up at this ungodly hour?"

Cora looks up. "You do know most people are up this early for work, don't you, Genevieve?"

The currently auburn-colour haired woman scoffs and digs through cupboards. Cora's thankful to see her in a t-shirt. Usually, when male guests are over there's far less.

"What are  _you_  doing up so early?"

"You mean late?" Genevieve asks with a glance and a chuckle. "Looking for something to take this headache away. Do you know where it is?"

Cora rises and opens another cupboard. She pulls out a bottle of pills and tosses them to her friend. "Who's upstairs today?"

Scrunching her eyes for a moment, she lets out a soft  _hmm_ , before she shrugs. "After rehearsal, we all went out for drinks. Met him there. He's not staying long. About to send him home so I can sleep."

There's something slightly ironic to Cora that Genevieve loves to sleep with men, but doesn't fall asleep  _with_  them.

Returning to the table, Cora clears her place and washes out her bowl. "Hope that goes well for you."

There's a soft snort. "Where're you headed? Didn't think the restaurant opened this early."

"Doesn't, Vieve," she replies. "New job."

"Anything good?"

"We'll see. I start today."

"In that?" Vieve looks her dress up and down with a grimace. "Hopefully nowhere important. You look more like a rough sleeper in that smock."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," she grumbles and crosses her arms. "It's not a smock."

"Is to. Hold on," Vieve replies and jogs upstairs leaving Cora tapping her foot in the entryway. When she comes back down, she's holding a knee-length burgundy dress.

"That'll never fit."

"Shut up," Vieve replies. "It's big on me so it'll be fine on you. Also, don't be prude. Just change."

Cora shoots her a glare and quickly pulls off the grey "smock". The moment the air hits her skin, it begins to crawl and she stiffens against a shiver. In a flash, she takes the burgundy dress and pulls it on. Unlike Genevieve, she doesn't care to be revealed.

"At least this is acceptable," Vieve remarks with a smirk. "We'll have to go shopping this weekend."

_Easy for her to say. She's got a steady job._ If it had been any other day, Cora wouldn't have minded the teasing. With the Ricicles twisting in her gut, however, she simply shrugs. Checking the time, she winces. "Shoot, I'll talk to you tonight and let you know how it goes."

"Might not be until this weekend," Vieve replies. "I have rehearsal for the next few days."

Cora nods as she grabs her stuff, takes one last look in the mirror—making sure her muddy-coloured hair isn't sticking up and heads out the door.

The rays of the sun peek over the buildings as she approaches the black sedan. Cora's suddenly wishing she hadn't eaten breakfast. It's sloshing around in her stomach ready to make an appearance.  _Please, no._

She pauses as the driver opens the door.

He's a man, probably in his fifties, and he's balding. There's no expression on his face, but the few lines near his eyes make her wonder if he likes to laugh. His rosy cheeks have her smiling as she holds out a hand.

"Cora Merriman," she greets.

When he doesn't respond, her smile fades, and she wrings her hands together. Her heart picks up pace as she gives a polite nod before she trips and stumbles into the backseat. She can feel her cheeks burn red, and she glances toward the driver. He says nothing, simply shuts the door.

Righting herself, Cora glances out the window as the sun continues climbing out of bed. Buildings pass by leaving her only vaguely aware of where she's headed. Tendrils of fear snake through her innards, and again, she  _really_  regrets eating Ricicles. Her fingers tap against her knee, and she looks about the car.

"So, not one of the chattier drivers?" she questions as her gaze settles on him.

The man doesn't reply.

"Right, so I could sit back here and have a conversation with myself, talk about the people I've killed, and you'd never say a word?"

Again, no response.

"Perhaps I should just talk aloud to my alter egos," she pauses as her fingers tremble slightly. "I just did. They say to name you Frances. I'm sure you won't mind. They rather like that name for you."

Cora knows she should shut up. Really, there's no reason for her to make light conversation. Her first day on the job, and she's already making a fool of herself. A complete idiot, if she was to be frank. However, she can't seem to stop, and that's possibly because the cereal doesn't threaten to climb up her throat when she's rambling. Plus, she's been in the car for eighteen minutes, and the silence is more than her poor nerves can bear.

"So, Frances, have you worked here long? Do you have a wife? Husband? Both?"

The car rolls to a halt at a light, giving  _Frances_  a moment to look at her in the rearview mirror. His glance is scrutinising, and she doesn't blame him. She gives a half-smile.

"Do you  _all_  share custody of the kids?"

His brow quirks, and his eyes brighten into a smile. "Married thirty-five years to the same woman. Three kids."

"Congratulations, Frances. That's lovely to hear. Marriages end all too quickly these days." Cora leans back against the seat, pleased he's opened up to her. "So, will you be picking me up every day?"

He nods as the car begins to move again. "Long as you're employed by Mr Holmes."

"And I take it most things are sworn to secrecy?"

He nods again. "Except, Ms Merriman, it's Henry. And Frances is my wife's name."

Her eyes widen and confusion spreads across her face.  _Is he joking?_

R҉͕̣e̢̙̦̗̮̮͈̞p̶͕̞͚̻̣͉̜e̟͙͇͎͚͞a̗̻̝͎̗t̤͚̖̙̪̫ ̲̥̪A̝̩̟͖̣̬f͕̭t̥̼͍̬̀e̹r̪͍̮͎͟ ̳̪Me̫̹͚͕̜͠

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

The sound echoes, bouncing between the four walls. It's the sound she was counting for twenty-seven hundred ticks before stopping close to three hours ago. She muses over the fact she enjoys the ambient sound. After all, it is just static in a chaotic world.

A world that lives by time.

_Time is an illusion_ passes through her thoughts, and Cora can feel the edge of her lips twitch, nearly turning upwards at the irony. Time might be created and not truly exist, yet the sun still rises and falls each day. And people will always divide the wheel into sections to meet their needs. In short, she knows the ticking will forever keep the world turning.

_It's ridiculous I can't think of a more suitable quote,_  she thinks as she bites her tongue softly.  _It's simply as if I googled the best 'time' quotes or something of that matter._

Her gaze settles back on the film in front of her. If she has to be informed one more time that the Queen is still Elizabeth, she might quit before she ends her third day. She's tired of the informational programmes. Cora understands that she has to keep her mouth closed because she's dealing with government information. She just doesn't know why she needs three straight days of reminders about it.

Before she can decide whether to slam her head into the wall, the film ends and she's told she can leave. There's a sigh of relief since her brain feels mushier than any zombie's. At this point, she's decided that had she been alive during the Revolutionary War, there's absolutely no chance she'd have been a loyalist. Not with the training she's just been through.

In addition, her favourite tea is suddenly the Boston Harbour blend.

Cora makes her way through the building only to end up in what she assumes is an interrogation room. With its bare beige walls and dim lighting, she wonders if the government has read her mind and condemned her for treason. Her skin crawls as she feels the weight of depression oozing into her veins from lack of warmth. It leaves Cora yawning and wanting nothing more than to curl up in her bed, fast asleep.

"Decided you'd rather be a door frame?"

Her attention is drawn to a desk in the far corner. It's clearly seen better days. Much like the man who's seated behind it. There's something about the lines on his face that make her think the room is a representation of him.

Clearing her throat, Cora straightens up and smooths out her dress before walking to a rickety chair in front of the desk.

Mr Holmes looks up at her. "Training went well?"

"Um," she fumbles as she takes a seat. "Well as to be expected."

"Informative?"

" _Very_." Cora bites her tongue in order to make sure she muzzles her thoughts on how she's despised the last three days.

His brows lift slightly. "Feel as if you understood what was indicated, do you?"

She gives a nod, but then her head minimally sways side to side.

"Do not lie to me, Ms Merriman."

It's not as if she's purposely lying. Cora just doesn't want to return to that training abyss and pretend to listen all over again. "If I tell you how many chairs and how many ceiling tiles are in that room, do I pass?"

Mr Holmes' blinks. "It's a surprise you made it," he admits ruefully. "Most new hires find a way to bypass training."

Her mouth drops slightly in surprise. "I didn't have to sit through all that?"

The gaze he pins her with doesn't give her the answer she's looking for. Nor does the fact he turns and looks about the office. "Part of your duties will be to keep this place hospitable. To that extent, if you wish to redecorate, feel free."

_Does he realise how abysmal this place is_? she muses as her gaze pauses momentarily on black paper over what she presumes is a large window.  _What the…_

"Significant people cross these floors. "

Cora looks around the room again, her eyes widening as she tries to keep her lips from twitching in disgust.  _I can't imagine him, in his three-piece suit, would allow this office to be so filthy._

"You are responsible for ordering supplies along with other bits and bobs needed. It is not your place to question if something strikes you as odd." He looks at her, but his voice catches her off guard. When he spoke to her the other day, he seemed confident. Now, he seems almost…doleful. "I will require you to run errands along with various other things as necessary."

Mr Holmes walks to a rickety cabinet on the right wall and pours himself a cup of coffee. "There needs to be a fresh pot brewed every morning. Make sure to clean the counter, cups, and carafe by the end of the evening. There are very few times when the pot's actually empty." He pauses with a glance at her. "Unless you drink coffee?"

"Every morning," she replies, but doesn't tell him it's at least three cups that resurrects her each day. He'll either think she has addictive tendencies or that she might be one of those psychotic individuals who need caffeine to function—both of which she likes to pretend are  _not_  viable possibilities for herself.

"Perhaps it will be empty by the end of the day, then." He turns and walks back to his desk. Again, she sees the lines from some sort of trouble beneath the surface. "What papers did you sign?"

Cora crosses her legs. She finds his question odd and thinks perhaps he's just curious about how honest she is.  _Is this the sort of thing one lies about?_  Her heart begins racing and fear seems to find a room to take up residence in. She honestly doesn't want to look for another job after sitting through those long hours of training.  _Is there a wrong answer?_

Clearing her throat, she gives him her best answer. "General ones. Confidentiality, tax information, loyalty to the Queen, offering of a first-born child; the typical."

He leans back and his head tilts slightly, dark eyes lightening a bit. "This attempt at humour is part of your personality, I presume?"

Shrugging, the right side of her lip pulls back to reveal the outline of her teeth. "I was apparently recommended for this position, correct?" When he gives her a nod, she continues, "Then your data told you it was a condition. One therapy doesn't help."

Mr Holmes takes a sip of his coffee, and he studies her for—by her rough estimate—two full minutes. She is slightly curious to know what he finds because all she observed in the mirror was the zit forming on her chin. "You're amused with your jokes."

_Did he get all that from a zit?_ Cora shakes her head. "Never. I'm not very funny. Well…I might be narcissistic if I admitted to that, though. Studies not complete; not yet, anyway."

"I see nerves give you a loose tongue."

_Dammit._ Wincing, she looks at her hands folded in her lap. At this point in her life, she should know better than to allow her nerves free reign of her tongue. It's not an endearing behaviour, and she's nearly certain he finds it annoying.

Reaching into a squeaky drawer, Mr Holmes procures a small binder and a hand-sized screen which she recognises as one of those newfangled mobile phones. He slides them across the desk to her. "I need you to have those faces memorised by tomorrow."

"And this?" she questions holding up the mobile as confusion slides across her features.

Mr Holmes is silent for exactly six seconds before replying, "If you cannot seem to recall them all by tomorrow morning, at least know Sir Edwin and Lady Smallwood. You will see them on a regular basis."

Blinking, it takes her a moment to realise he means the binder, and clearly won't be answering the phone question. Cora flips the binder open to see many different faces, including the royal family, and the prime minister staring back at her.  _Least I know most of them._ "Not sure if I can do that. This seems tricky," she retorts, pointing to the prime minister. "Who is this again?"

"Ms Merriman."

His tone is warning, but when she looks at him, he doesn't seem upset with her. She pulls the binder toward her while keeping her gaze on him. "Is it better if I do not speak? At all?"

There are several long moments where his dark eyes are focused on her. The time allows her to wonder what working as a mute would be like. Would she at least have a whiteboard to write on, or perhaps she'd have to learn sign language? Maybe pantomiming is the preferred choice.

"Never lie to me," he finally says, and she's surprised by his sudden change of topic. "That is the one thing I will not tolerate under any circumstances, and they will have severe consequences. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir." Cora nods, and wonders why he took such a drastic turn.


	3. Feigning Innocence

Cora shouldn't wonder how dust ended up caked into the corners of the office. She shouldn't wonder how cobwebs ended up hanging from the edges of the walls by the cottony, sticky masses. She also shouldn't wonder why it looks as if it's been months since anyone even bothered to mop the unfinished wooden floor.

She swore this was a busy office. The signs, however, clearly tell her it's gone unused for quite some time.  _Perhaps it's never been used at all_ , she muses. In any case, she views it as a crypt and wonders what secrets the walls hide.

The cleaning is hard work, but it's not as if she hates it. She likes cleaning—most of the time—though she isn't sure she should be doing this to the office. While Mr Holmes told her he expects the best, and the room definitely wasn't, she wonders if she out of line by doing what the janitorial staff should be.

The only thing she's seen them do so far is a sweep of the exact middle of the floor. God forbid they try to touch the chairs—although to be fair the things would probably fall apart they're in such a horrendous condition. Now that she's in gloves and scrubbing the stone floor, though, Cora wonders when the last time it truly shined like wood. She imagines this  _should_ be part of the cleaners' routine.

By the time the midnight hour rolls around, she stands near the exit and looks around. Everything is finally spotless and seems more welcoming than the dusty dungeon she's worked in for the past three days. Smiling, she grabs her supplies and leaves.

When she arrives at work the next morning, part of her wonders why she even went home. It's only been six hours since she left, and Cora begins to strongly consider adding a cot to the supply list. After starting a brew, she puts out the biscuits she bought and makes sure the rickety chairs are straight.

"What's this?"

Cora turns towards the doorway and sees Mr Holmes slowly eyeing the room. "What?"

His brow quirks, and he approaches the biscuits. Taking one, he turns to her. "You do understand this is a governmental office."

"Yes, I vaguely remember sitting in a training room about that," she quips.

Ignoring her jest, he takes a bite of biscuit and looks at it. "How late were you here?"

Cora shrugs. She didn't clean so he could make a fuss over it. She just wanted it to look inviting. Besides, if this is going to be a second home it might as well look presentable—not somewhere with dust bunnies hiding in the corners.

"Ms Merriman, I am asking you a question."

"Not sure it needs an answer, sir." She settles in front of his desk and pulls a screen from her bag. She's been told it's a fantastic piece of technology called a Surface Pro, but she hates the touchscreen—which is also why she hates the mobile she's forced to use. Both are reminders of why she loves her flip phone.

Finishing the biscuit, Mr Holmes pours himself a cup of coffee. "Do not try my patience. How long were you here last night?"

Her lips press together. Cora's irritated he doesn't just accept she did such a thing and doesn't need to be paid for it. Truth be told, she is getting something out of having a clean office. The fresh, inviting scent is much better than the stale, musty odour it previously held.

"You're in charge of security cameras, aren't you? Check those," she merely replies and works on dragging the green button across the screen to answer the ringing mobile.

Her shoulders straighten, and Cora's thankful to be saved by the call. She honestly isn't looking to get anything out of staying late and fails to understand why he's inquiring. His persistent questioning leaves her feeling as if she's done something wrong.

When a recording comes on the line about  _Aid_ - _Call_ , however, she hesitates. Cora doesn't want to listen to information about a nurse call system, especially since she doesn't need one. On the other hand, should she hang up, she'll probably be disciplined for her attitude.  _I should have thought this through,_  she realises. With this in mind, she pretends as if she's listening to a live person.

Cora refuses to make eye contact with Mr Holmes as he passes her and seats himself at his desk.

"The next time you wish to extend your hours, I expect you to inform me," he says, and she continues pretending as if she can't hear him. "Also, Ms Merriman, please get the name of the company whose automated message you're talking to. By law, it's illegal."

The phone drops into her lap as her eyes widen.

R҉͕̣e̢̙̦̗̮̮͈̞p̶͕̞͚̻̣͉̜e̟͙͇͎͚͞a̗̻̝͎̗t̤͚̖̙̪̫ ̲̥̪A̝̩̟͖̣̬f͕̭t̥̼͍̬̀e̹r̪͍̮͎͟ ̳̪Me̫̹͚͕̜͠

Stifling a yawn, Cora heads out of the dry cleaners with Mr Holmes clothes in hand. She heads to the waiting sedan when a bark catches her attention. Turning, Cora sees a beautiful black and brown long-haired dog looking at her, tail whipping side to side. Her gaze passes the adorable mutt to a man and she gives him a quick look over.

His greatcoat has been patched in several places and the edges are frayed. The grey knit cap on his head helps keep his unruly dark hair slightly tamed, but does nothing for his disorderly beard. Without a second thought, she identifies him as a rough sleeper.

Digging through her bag, Cora pulls out a fiver and walks to the man. Holding it out, she meets his gaze. "I know it's not much, sir, but I hope this can help you and your handsome friend with dinner today."

"Oh no, Miss, I couldn't," the man says and pats the head of his furry companion.

Cora keeps her arm extended because while she's never been a rough sleeper, she does know what it's like to be in need. "I insist."

The corners of his eyes display crow's feet which become more prominent as he looks at the money she offers. When he finally takes it, his hazel eyes gloss for a moment. "Thank you, Miss. Hank and I are very humbled by your kindness."

Giving him a nod, Cora turns and makes her way into the car. Shutting the door, she can feel the smile on her face as she slouches in the seat.

"That was kind of you," Henry says as he pulls away from the curb.

"Everyone needs to eat." Cora takes a deep breath and lets out a yawn knowing she has thirty-six minutes before she's at the office. She doesn't mind being exhausted since she thoroughly enjoys the meaningless errands, the emailing, and other various few tasks Mr Holmes trusts her with. She may not be the brightest, but it's logical to her he wouldn't trust someone new with anything too important—which she's just fine with.

Another wide yawn escapes her as she shifts into a comfortable position against the backseat. It isn't long before she's dozed off.

The landscape that appears before her is something she's unfamiliar with. Something tells her she should know the place, and a bubble of some foreign emotion fills her insides. It's an odd feeling, one that's been gone so long she isn't quite sure if it's happiness or apprehension.

Taking off her shoes, Cora likes the feeling of the soft grass under her feet. The field around her is only halted by grey fog in the distance. Falling backward, she lets out a sigh as the grass catches her and creates a cushioned bed. When was the last time she had a good night's sleep?

The silvery clouds above her keep her cool but don't seem to hold rain. Not that she cares. Rain or sun wouldn't move her from the comfort of the soft grass.

Her hands rest by her head. One gently twirls a lock of her blonde hair while the other gently weaves through the grass. Her breathing is slowing, and she knows sleep is beginning to wash over her.

"Peaceful?"

The chill that overtakes her at those words sends her into an upright position. Standing above her is what she believes to be a man. His gleaming, red-eyed gaze stares down at her as a sly grin spreads across his lips. Long fingers with jagged nails stretch towards her.

She jolts up in the back of the car as they come to a stop. Looking in the rearview mirror, she takes a deep breath as she sees her mud-coloured hair.

_Just like always,_  she thinks as she regains her composure. Every time she sleeps it's always the same. That man, or what passes for a man, appears. The only difference is sometimes the dreams aren't so peaceful. She'd rather those than the illusion of safety.

When her heart doesn't stop thumping against her chest, Cora wonders if she's on the edge of an anxiety attack. She knows the dreams tend to bring those on. Digging through her bag, she pulls out a bottle of pills and takes one.

By the time Cora returns to the office, she's relaxed and the dream long forgotten. Walking into the room, Cora sees a woman standing near the desk. She catches a few words like  _Belfaust_ ,  _terrorist_  and  _exchange_  before making a break for the hallway. The fewer conversations she can be involved with, the better.

"Ms Merriman."

Pausing, she spins on the ball of her foot and straightens up—drying cleaning in hand. "Sir?"

"You are free to come into this office," Mr Holmes says, dark eyes glancing over her quickly. "The door has not been shut on you."

With a nod, Cora walks towards the desk and glances to the woman there. Her light blonde hair is drawn back with loose wisps and fringes framing her face. White pearls circle her neck and are a vivid contrast to the black, knee-length dress she's wearing. Her coat is a beautiful shade of juniper. There are soft lines on her face which speak to the daily stress she encounters. Despite these, Cora immediately recognises the woman from the picture she's seen.

"Lady Smallwood," Cora greets with a respectful nod. She holds still as she's studied with a scruntinising eye. It's very different than the one Mr Holmes gives her. While he seems to pay attention to details, this woman seems to silently question:  _Do you hold your tongue?_

At last, Lady Smallwood gives a nod as if approving a dog at a kennel show. "Hello, Ms Merriman. A pleasure to finally meet you."

"Pleasure's all mine." Cora releases the breath she's been holding and has an odd suspicion she's just passed a test of sorts.

"If Mycroft ever gives you any issues, come see me," Lady Smallwood says with a soft smile.

"Alicia," he warns, but Cora doesn't think he sounds serious about it.

Lady Smallwood turns to Mr Holmes. "It's a pleasure to see someone new. It's about time you started updating this dusty cell. Honestly, Mycroft I wish you'd take the other office."

"Have a good day, Lady Smallwood," he tells her and looks back at his laptop.

She gives a smirk and looks at Cora with a wink. "Have a good day to both of you."

Cora remains still until the sound of clicking heels have receded into the distance. She then hangs the dry cleaning by the door and moves to take a seat in front of the desk. Looking at him, those dark eyes have a smile in them she hasn't seen prior.

"Do you know what Lady Smallwood does?"

"Member of the Cabinet."

She's caught off guard when he continues to observe her. A new light comes into his eyes and trickles into a slight shift of muscles in his forehead. "Well, what deductions do you make?"

Cora's heard "What do you think" or "What is your opinion", but never deductions.  _It's an odd way to ask…_  Just odd enough that she can feign ignorance—because she doesn't want to assess the woman. She purses her lips before replying, "I'm not sure what you're asking for."

"Come now, Ms Merriman, you certainly know exactly what I'm looking for."

She shakes her head.

"You're a smart girl," he comments as he looks at his computer. "You certainly understand, and you're merely avoiding the topic."

_Girl isn't the exact term I would use_ , Cora thinks because she knows she's pushing thirty-two. However, it's probably not something she should argue since there's already a debate about his current words. Crossing her legs, she pulls out the  _tablet-thing_  as she titled it and pecks at the screen.  _One battle at a time._

"Ms Merriman," he says sternly, grabbing her attention. "There is no consequence for the answer you provide."

Giving a sigh, she leans back in the rickety chair. "That a promise?"

"Yes."

Swallowing back a smile, she pecks at the screen. "Yeah, then, I still haven't the slightest what you're asking."

"You prefer to be difficult, don't you?"

Cora opens her mouth to answer when she sees a news flash pop in the corner of the screen. Clicking on the link, she reads:

_The government Chief Whip Daniel Belfaust and his two daughters have been reported missing early this morning. Sources state he was taking the girls to Stone Hedge for a school project while Mrs Belfaust remained with her ailing mother. This comes on the heels of swirling rumours that Mr Belfaust and his wife are expected to announce a divorce in upcoming days. Sources close to Mrs Belfaust say she is expected to fight for full custody of her daughters leaving many to speculate he has abducted the girls. Scotland Yard is exhausting all available resources._

"Are you listening, Ms Merriman?"

Cora bites her lip. Could the conversation she walked in on earlier be referring to the breaking news in her hands? If so, then the article would be wrong. He didn't abduct his girls; they were all taken.

"What are you reading?" Mr Holmes inquires.

With a breath, she holds up the tablet-thing. As his gaze scans the article, she figures if she's going to answer the question now is a good time. He's distracted enough that he won't hear her whisper. "It seems that you admire Lady Smallwood. It's the first time I've seen your eyes light up."

"Feigning ignorance is not appreciated nor desired," he states and his gaze flicks to hers. Again, those dark eyes remind her of a predator's. "I assume this article is of importance based on what you might have heard when you entered."

Cora's brow furrows and she bites her lip.  _How can someone play stupid and yet not?_ "Look, sir, I didn't hear or see anything you didn't want me to."

"Refusing to eat the cake, Alice?"

_Cake?_  She glances around quickly to clarify a real cake wasn't brought in. Satisfied she won't put her foot in her mouth, she responds, "I'm afraid I don't follow. Look, I'm rubbish when it comes to magic tricks like the one you play. Expecting that of me is not entirely fair."

He leans back in his chair. "Is that what you make of my observations?"

_A gimmick? Yes,_  she thinks and gives him a slight nod. It's not exactly a topic she wants to dive into, so she takes a breath. "Why did you call me Alice?"

"If you simply think of what I do as a parlour trick, Ms Merriman, I'm not sure you're ready for the cake," he replies and looks back at his laptop, effectively ending their conversation.


	4. Chapter 4

"You promised my rug would be here two weeks ago. It's now been nearly a month, and I expect some sort of compensation for this wait," Cora says, tapping her foot against the wooden floor in the hallway.

_"We're sorry for the inconvenience,_ " the man— _Marty_ —on the line says. _"Our records indicate the rug should be there."_

"Funny, I have a wooden floor with no rug, and there's not a delivery man in sight. Care to explain that to me?" She glances over as Mr Holmes steps out of the office, umbrella in hand.

_"Ma'am, there's really nothing we can do about shipping companies."_

Cora leans against the wall. "Pardon me? Maybe I'm starting to go deaf, but I could have sworn you're implying the shipping is  _not_  your fault."

" _It honestly isn't."_

She gives a dark laugh since that is the most ridiculous excuse she's ever heard. "You ensure the product will be shipped and delivered by a certain date, yet, you don't ensure the shipper?"

" _We have nothing to do with that."_

"Look, Marty," Cora says with a roll of her eyes. "I'd like to speak with a manager. Clearly, you're incapable of giving me the correct answers."

" _Ma'am, my superior will say the same_ —"

"Great, then I'll discuss it with them. I can wait." When the flute solo plays in her ear, she looks over at Mr Holmes. "Lunch will be a tad late."

"Like this mysterious rug that should have adorned my floor thirteen days ago?"

"Maybe not thirteen days late. We will eat today, I promise that."

"Take care of the rug situation; I'll be back with lunch." He starts for the exit when he pauses and looks at her. "I'm going to want a new desk as well."

A partial smile pushes the right side of her lips up.  _Must be doing something right._  "Yes, sir. And you don't have to fetch lunch. I'll do it as soon as—"

"Just locate the rug," he replies and exits the lobby.

Giving a sigh, she's very thankful he thinks highly enough of her to trust her with decor. Walking back into the office—flute still serenading her—Cora starts wiping down the counter near the window covered in black paper and realises it's quite rickety. Chances are, the counter will break, making the coffee pot a tragic and unnecessary victim.

_How long has this stuff been here? Since the Queen was born?_

After making the counter shine a bit, Cora settles into a wobbly chair and begins searching for desks and cabinets online. Her foot taps to the beat of the flute as she tries not to grow frustrated since she's been on hold for fifteen minutes now.

There's a beautiful mahogany coloured cabinet she finds which would liven up the room. When paired with a granite countertop called  _Lady's Dream_ , Cora's nearly certain it will accent everything nicely—or so she hopes. She isn't sure that interior design is her forte, but she's trying.

_"Hello, Ma'am? Are you there?"_

"Still here," Cora says, pleased the flute has finally reached its end.

_"My name is Brody, I'm the supervisor here. How may I assist you?"_

"Hi Brody, I'm simply looking for where my rug is and for some form of compensation for this lengthy wait. Last name is M-E-R-R-I-M-A-N. You should have the file pulled up provided Marty explained the situation."

_"Yes, I am looking at your file. Ma'am, it says it was shipped out over a month ago. It was supposed to have arrived."_

"If I'm calling you, it clearly has not. Would you like me to send a photo of the bare floor it's supposed to occupy?"

_"Ma'am, I'm afraid there's nothing we can do. You're going to have to contact the shipping company."_

"Contact the shipping company? Are you bloo—"

A hand appearing in front of her face stops her. Turning, she sees Mr Holmes standing with a bag in one hand, and he's requesting the phone with the second. There's a look of strong annoyance on his face, but she's not entirely sure it's because of her. Cora offers the phone.

He places it to his ear. "My name is Mycroft Holmes, and I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Office. Where is my rug?" He's silent for several moments and there's a slight shake of his head. "That's an unacceptable answer. You will have the money refunded to Cora Merriman by end of business today. If not, I will personally launch an investigation into the operation you are running, and you won't be able to beg for spare change when it's finished."

Hanging up, Mr Holmes drops the phone into her lap. He then proceeds to pull a small brown box from the bag he holds and places it before her. She watches as he moves and calmly takes a seat on his side of the desk.

"Inform me the minute you receive your refund," he says and pulls another box from the bag.

Cora's still as a statue for nearly forty-five seconds trying to process what just happened. When she first arrived at the building on Whitehall, she never guessed that her employer had  _that_  much sway. She probably should have pieced it together based on the simple fact the man needs an assistant—not to mention all he knew about her.

However, she was just as happy staying in the dark and getting paid.

"Come now, Cora, are you honestly bewildered by my position?"

She looks at him, confusion gently shifting the muscles on her face. He's never called her Cora which instantly catches her attention. In reference to his question, she doesn't know how shocked she is. She can't formulate a reply and instead opens the box he's offered her. A grin crosses her face when she sees it's a burger and chips. Again, however, confusion clouds her features.

_How does he know I wanted a burger?_

Mr Holmes smooths a napkin on the desk in front of him before flicking another one and placing it on his lap. He then places his box on the napkin on the table and breaks the edges creating a placemat. "Ms Merriman, I have asked you about eating the cake. Should you decide to continue down the rabbit hole you're wandering, I will be glad to inform you of a bit more."

Cora places the box on the desk before popping a chip in her mouth. At this point in her life, she's sure she could live off chips alone—since she can't afford Puff Cheetos to be shipped to her at this time.

Eating another one gives her time to process his comment.  _The White Rabbit is already leading me down the tunnel, so do I really have a choice about the cake?_ Taking a bite of her burger, she slowly chews. _I'm not sure I want to be caught up in the tangled government web. If I decline, I'll be out of a job, though._

"There comes a point where you must ask yourself a very difficult question," he tells her when she doesn't respond. "Is it worth the risk?"

"I understand that," she finally says and takes a bite of her burger. "But how can I decide when I don't have all the details?"

With his gaze on the laptop to his left, he now is slow on the response as he begins to eat his sandwich. Instead, his brow quirks as he reads something on the screen. Head-tilted slightly, he seems extremely confused, and she checks the tablet-thing but doesn't see a new email or one that would cause question.

_I've been answering emails all morning. How could I have missed one?_

Finally, Mr Holmes puts the sandwich down. "You're already piecing the details together for yourself, whether you admit that or not."

Cora allows silence to grow between them for several minutes while she works on her chips. She's uncertain of what he exactly means, but he hasn't dismissed her like he normally does. Maybe he's looking for her to say the correct phrase, a password of sorts. However, she hasn't the slightest what that could be.

With a deep breath, she looks up at him again. "Do I have a choice in the matter? I had none when it came to working here. You refused to take no for an answer. Instead, you led me down this hole, and now I'm in a room with all locked doors."

Mr Holmes slowly sits back and steeples his fingers. His black treacle-coloured eyes never once leave hers. "It sounds as if you need to decide if you want to drink the bottle or eat the cake, Ms Merriman."

R҉͕̣e̢̙̦̗̮̮͈̞p̶͕̞͚̻̣͉̜e̟͙͇͎͚͞a̗̻̝͎̗t̤͚̖̙̪̫ ̲̥̪A̝̩̟͖̣̬f͕̭t̥̼͍̬̀e̹r̪͍̮͎͟ ̳̪Me̫̹͚͕̜͠

"How's the job,  _really_?"

"I've already told you, I think I'll manage. Not as overwhelming as I assumed, and relatively normal." However, Cora chooses not to think about the Alice comments. Besides, after a very long day of shopping, she simply wants to eat and not continuing discussing her unusual boss.

_If only she hadn't been busy the last few weeks,_  Cora thinks and slides a plate to Genevieve before placing another one on the table and settling down to eat.

Vieve picks up a fork and pokes at the potatoes and chicken. "What's this?"

Cora blinks, thinking there are far too many times her friend acts like a five-year-old. "Found it online. It's called chicken gratin. Looked edible." She shrugs.

Taking a bite, Vieve chews slowly before swallowing and then smiles. "This is fantastic! How are you not married?"

"Marriages aren't built on food alone." Cora takes a bite. It's not the best thing she's ever had or made—probably because she didn't have everything the recipe called for. Genevieve's not hard to please, though.

"True, you actually have to  _put out_  in one."

Instead of responding, Cora takes another bite of food. After all, she is  _well_  aware Vieve thinks she should shag more.

"So," Vieve says with a mouthful, "this man you work for, what's he like?"

She swallows before answering. "Curious sort. Guess you have to be to work for the government."

"Government?" Her friend's eyes light up, and her voice lowers. "Is he James Bond?"

Cora laughs. "Not at all. He holds a minor role."

"Can I still call him James Bond?"

Nodding, she smiles. All things considered, she thinks it's an amusing name for Mr Holmes. "But he's no Sean Connery. Not even Daniel Craig."

"Damn," Vieve says and pops a piece of chicken in her mouth. "What about Pierce Brosnan?"

"'Fraid not."

"Well, shit. Does he at least know Her Royal Highness?"

"Not likely," Cora replies and takes a bite of her food.

Vieve rolls her eyes and lets out a  _tsk_. "What a pity. I was rather hoping for some excitement in your life."

"No need to live vicariously through me. Live your own life. You're rehearsing for  _Les Misérables_ , aren't you?"

Her friend rolls her eyes and runs a hand through her now chestnut-coloured hair. "Cosette is a decent enough character, but she's a bit innocent for my tastes."

_Many things are too innocent for your tastes,_  Cora thinks and makes sure her mouth is full of food so the thought stays private. In addition, she doesn't want to accidentally say she finds  _Les Misérables_  extremely boring. She barely made it through the film and  _that_  starred Hugh Jackman, Russel Crowe, and Anne Hathaway—all of whom she typically enjoys. Plus, Helena Bonham Carter never hurt anyone…in real life…or so she thinks.

"It would be nice to star in  _Chicago_. I'd do a splendid performance with that," she continues. "It's all sorts of scandalous outfits and dancing. That's probably one you don't care for."

On the contrary, Cora happens to love  _Chicago_  but again decides to keep her mouth full of food. She doesn't want to debate musicals. She has a feeling it won't end well, especially since Vieve's favourite is  _Cats_ , and she just can't get past the idea of a bunch of people dressed as felines singing for two hours.

"We start in a few months. Are you going to be there opening night?"

_Shit. Should've changed the subject…_ Cora does her best not to convey her dismay through facial features. She really needs to attend one of Genevieve's performances, but she hasn't the slightest idea who she would drag to hell with her. She shrugs and swallows the food in her mouth. "You know I hate opening night."

Vieve rolls her eyes. "Of course. Well, I expect you to show at some point."

"When I'm available, you'll get me tickets?"

She laughs. "Oh, I'm getting you in for free, am I?"

"You  _are_  one of the leads."

"Fair enough. Let me know when you want them."

_Is never an answer?_

Cora takes her plate to the sink and washes it. A shadow passes her thoughts as she wishes she could do something like Genevieve. Being an… assistant is a step up from barmaid, but being able to perform on stage would be amazing. Not for the fame or money, but to make people smile.

_Ha. I dreamed a dream, but it could not be,_  she muses and shakes her head with a small smile.

R҉͕̣e̢̙̦̗̮̮͈̞p̶͕̞͚̻̣͉̜e̟͙͇͎͚͞a̗̻̝͎̗t̤͚̖̙̪̫ ̲̥̪A̝̩̟͖̣̬f͕̭t̥̼͍̬̀e̹r̪͍̮͎͟ ̳̪Me̫̹͚͕̜͠

Sunday's been kind to her so far. Music jams from her tablet-thing, and she finds herself bobbing to the beat every once in a while—or working on her karaoke for songs she'd never sing in public since that's an embarrassment Cora doesn't need. She's dressed in comfy sweats because cleaning the office doesn't require the latest, uncomfortable fashion. The counter, granite, and desk are set up—thanks to some skilled men. The  _new_  ornate rug she ordered leans against the wall.

She's already polished the wooden floor, bringing it back to life. On top of it, she's also taken the liberty of tearing down the black paper from the large window and letting today's sunlight filter into the previously darkened dungeon. The way sun dances off the glistening wooden surface gives the room a breath of fresh air.

Currently, Cora's trying to figure out how to attach the bit to the drill she bought. It should be relatively easy, but the piece doesn't seem to want to connect.  _This is magnetic, isn't it?_

"Nothing better to do on your day off?"

Pausing, she knows she should have heard him walking down the hallway, but apparently, she was  _far_  too occupied with the drill. Cora turns to see Mr Holmes standing in the entrance. He has a smirk on his face as he watches her struggle with the bit.

Biting hard on her lip, she tries not to laugh over his track outfit. Not that he looks funny in it, but she's never seen him in anything but a three-piece suit. It definitely makes him less of an intimidating figure. She parrots his question, "Nothing better to do on  _your_  day off?"

"I needed to retrieve something." He walks to her and pulls the drill and bit from her. It takes several very long seconds before he snaps it into place. "Should I be concerned about your ability to piece this together?"

She holds out her hand for the drill. "I don't do this often. I doubt you do, either."

His brow quirks and her cheeks redden since she didn't mean to say that out loud. Taking the screws and brackets, he steps onto a rickety chair near the window. He drills where she marked a level line.

"Is there a reason you've rid the windows of the paper?" he questions.

"Light never hurt anyone but Gremlins," Cora responds and watches as he steps down and moves the chair to the other side.

"Depends where you are standing."

She shakes her head and allows a puzzled look to cross her features.

Stepping down from the chair, Mr Holmes pauses in front of her. "In order to enjoy that light, Ms Merriman, there must always be those who lurk in the shadows for that is where the real dangers are found."

Her brow rises high and she purses her lips at his dramatic response. If he's bothered by her look, he doesn't let on as he grabs the rod which she's already put rich, brown curtains on.

Crossing her arms, Cora patiently waits for him to finish hanging the curtains before replying. "That might be true in some minds, but you also need the light to figure out where the shadows prefer to hide."

Mr Holmes moves past her to the wall above his desk. "Just the one picture?" he questions as if she hasn't said a word.

Taking a breath, her shoulders slump. She points to the bare wall behind her. "No, I marked the other."

While he continues drilling where she marked, Cora fixes the curtains. Her face wrinkles because she doesn't understand why sometimes he ignores her and other times he seems to lecture her.

"Yes, Ms Merriman?"

She looks at him and he has a careful eye on her as if he's curious as to what she's thinking. Shaking her head, she fusses with the curtains and focuses on the music playing.

Cora starts bobbing her head when  _Yellow Submarine_ comes up on the playlist. She wonders on a scale of one to ten, how British she seems at the moment. At least it seems like she's supporting where she lives, where she was born. And at that, she smiles, because she really does love living here despite her thoughts about the monarchy and country.

However, she knows that Texas in the United States can be just as bad with their Lone Star ideals, and the fact they can secede at will.  _Maybe there's issues all over. No one is without problems, countries or their citizens alike._

Cora stops as there's another voice added to the Beatles. She glances over to see Mr Holmes singing softly along as he finishes the second drilling. She wants to laugh but knows it's probably better she not say a word.

He glances at her, catching her observation. "You will never speak of this."

Shaking her head, she turns back to the curtains which she is clearly no longer fixing. A bubble of laughter forms in her throat, and she hopes it doesn't pop. To hear him singing  _Yellow Submarine_  has truly made her day.

"That laughter better stay where it's at," he warns.

A piece of the bubble makes its way out through her mouth. She covers it with a cough. "Sorry, Ringo."

The look he pins her with is not annoyance or disapproval, but somewhere between neutral and amused. He remains silent as he steps down from the chair. Cora moves toward the pictures and shifts the first one leaning against the wall.

Once finished, Mr Holmes places the drill on the desk and turns to her. "Why did you not ask for assistance? If you're not familiar with an office setting, we  _do_  have maintenance here. This isn't entirely the dark ages you believe it to be."

_This office was._ Gripping the side of the frame, Cora manages to lift the picture. It's heavy, but she can handle it. When Mr Holmes grabs part of it, however, she's glad he came in on his day off.

"I don't…exactly…ask for help."

"Clearly," he responds, and they hang the picture on the wall behind his desk. "I am well aware of your lone wolf mentality."

She pauses as they grab the next picture. Glancing at it, she sees the open window with a breeze coming through. If she changes the topic now, she could go through the metaphorical window. Except, she apparently never likes to give herself a reprieve. "What?"

"You like to be alone. I imagine that's a difficult concept when Ms Wilkins would rather you find a warm bed for the night."

With the picture on the ground again, she looks at him. Suddenly, she feels caught up in a wave and being pulled far from safety. "How would you know I'm alone?"

His brow rises as if she should already have the answer to that question.

And she does.

Cora picks up the second picture again and helps him hang it on the far wall. "So, you're watching my every move?  _That's_  comforting."

"Your privacy changed when you signed your life away. Remember, your firstborn belongs to the Queen now," he says, and she can hear a bit of sarcasm in his voice.

_Of course, he'd listen to that._ Clearing her throat, she returns to the original subject. "I do like to be a lone wolf, is that a bad thing?"

"I believe that's yet to be seen." He tilts the picture slightly to make it straight.

She moves to the rug and pauses. Leaning against the wall, a new thought begins to take hold, making her wonder if he'd answer. When he stands before her, his quizzical looks makes her speak up. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Today, I've been hanging pictures for the last thirteen minutes. Before that, my mother and father would need help around the house. I'm sure they gave up asking my brother since he was younger—but he also led them to believe he was incapable of using power tools or similar equipment."

"You have a brother?"

"Yes, an incredibly ignorant one whom I would dearly miss if anything happened to him."

"I see." Cora nods, and it's pleasant to see that there's actually someone Mr Holmes admits to caring for—although she's certain Lady Smallwood is on that list as well. "Actually, I was questioning how long you've worked for the government."

He looks at her for a moment as if gauging her thoughts. "A while. Particular agencies take an interest when you have a certain degree of intellect."

"I don't qualify for that, so why me?"

"What do you see in Ms Wilkins?"

Her brow furrows as the question seems misplaced. "I don't understand."

"We all have reasons for our decisions. You chose to be friends with her because she matched interests of yours. Just like I chose you because you matched parameters needed for this position."

Cora puts a hand on the rug. "Positions like these are hard to come by. People rarely leave, and if they do, isn't it word of mouth that gets the next spot?"

"Mostly, but in this case, I've stated you were recommended."

"By whom?"

He doesn't respond as he helps her unroll the carpet and lay it on the floor. "Is this lone wolf mentality going to become an issue I need to look into?"

She stops moving the rug and looks at him. "You tell me, sir."

"As long as you remain a loyal wolf, we will have no difficulties."

"Meaning I am to be left in the dark about a number of issues," she surmises with a huff and crosses her arms, earning a raised brow from him.

"You have yet to decide if you want the cake or the drink."

It's frustrating, really. Cora has no desire to see what the government does daily. She is not lured in by the thought of secrets or mysteries. On the contrary, she likes being a mindless servant. Yet, with each passing day, she seems to find herself more entangled in a very twisted web.

Especially since Chief Whip Belfaust is still missing.

"You can't skirt the edges, Cora."

She looks at him. "I'm not."

Mr Holmes approaches and looks down at her. "From where I'm standing, you'd rather peek through the keyhole. You seem to know the cost is great, and you're not sure if you want to unlock what's within. It relates back to your commitment issues, of course."

"Commitment issues?"

"A lone wolf who would rather live on her own than live with her friend."

"You know why I don't want to be there. And I like Genevieve. She's my best friend. We hang out a lot."

"Then why are you here, by yourself, on your day off instead of with her?" he questions, and moves back to his end of the rug, ready to move it when she does. "It's not as if she's working. In fact, you could have simply brought her to help. What's more, why haven't you told her  _where_  you work?"

To his inquiry, Cora has no response. It's not something she has thought about, but it is a slight revelation. She knows she wanted to clean and set everything up for tomorrow, but Vieve does have the day off and would have come if asked.

_If I would've let her know where I work._

As she moves the rug straight and centre in front of the desk, she looks at him. "Do you wish you had someone to accompany you to the office?"

There are several long moments he studies her. She didn't think the question was that difficult… However, he doesn't get an opportunity to answer as the sound of bleating echoes down the hall. Both of them stare at each other for several seconds before she scampers to the door.

Cora's jaw drops as she sees a flock of sheep headed toward her them. Fourteen, fluffy, white sheep  _baaing_  their way down the corridor with a man in a shepherd outfit—complete with a brown wooden staff—directing the animals toward her. She can't formulate any sort of response.

"Cora, why are there fourteen sheep headed down the hall with a shepherd?"

She glances over as Mr Holmes moves next to her. The best she can offer him is a shrug and can't get her mouth to close for the life of her.

"Did you not understand when I asked for—"

"Y-You can check the order," she interjects, jaw coming back to life. "I requested  _sheets_. Fourteen  ** _sheets_**  of plywood."


	5. Another One Bites the Dust

The dry-cleaning hangs next to her as she rubs the back of her neck. She definitely needs a stiff drink and probably a good night's sleep. "It's not practical that weekends are only two days out of seven."

Henry chuckles as he drives her back to the office. "How many would you prefer?"

"All of them." Cora laughs and looks at him through the rearview mirror. "I wouldn't mind a few extra holidays here and there."

"There're request days for such a wish."

She yawns wide and rubs an eye. "I'm not a fan of missing work. Maybe if we had three-day weekends I could manage through that."

"The epitome of human struggle," he jests.

"Isn't that the truth." Cora leans her head back on the seat. It isn't long before she's dozing amongst the fields. Looking around, she's confused because she knows without a doubt she's on her way back to the office, but yet, she wakes in a field? What's more, she thinks she remembers the field, but she knows she's never been there.

Before she can get a better look, a charming man comes into her vision but his glowing red eyes have her scrambling backwards. She trips and her shoulders jolt when she hits the grass. Gasping, her eyes open and Henry's shaking her into the real world.

"Sorry," she mutters, grabbing the dry cleaning.

He helps her from the car, allowing her to steady herself before moving. "Don't be. Mr Holmes keeps you busy."

As Cora makes her way through the building to the office, she juggles the clothes and pulls her pills from her purse. She hates the anxiety and panic she feels swirling inside, seemingly forming a bubbly thick goo in her stomach and throat. The sooner she can toss back a pill, the better she'll feel.

Popping the pill, she enters Mr Holmes' office where she hands him his dry cleaning.

"Thank you," he says with barely a glance in her direction. She can see from the sharp gaze and stiffened features something isn't quite right. "I need you to head to St Bart's for a report. Go to the mortuary, they'll assist you there."

She blinks. "A… report?"

"Yes, from the mortuary."

Cora rubs her arm and looks about the room. She's a tad annoyed the chairs haven't arrived yet, but it's only a deterrent from the fear ahead of her. "You want me to… walk into the place of the dead… for some papers?"

Mr Holmes looks at her. "Your theatrics are not appreciated."

Her brow quirks.

"What are you waiting for?"

After a breath, she gives a nod and exits the room. Cora isn't thrilled with the idea of being around corpses, but if she doesn't think about it too much, she can grab the report and get out. Quickening pace, she heads straight to the sedan where Henry is still waiting.

"Haven't seen you in a bit," he chuckles as he opens the door.

Swallowing roughly, she gives him a firm nod. Working on her breathing, Cora tries not to think about the cold lifeless bodies she's about to see. She keeps reminding herself they won't rise from the grave—or slab in this case. This isn't  _The Walking Dead_ or  _Resident Evil._

They're dead.

They can't harm her.

Putting his hand out to stop her from entering, Henry takes a look at her. "I've seen ghosts with more colour than you."

There's a soft shrug of her squared shoulders. "Let's just get this over with."

"Hospitals give you the jitters?"

Cora looks at him and bites her bottom lip. She keeps swallowing back the lump in her throat and doesn't want to think about the cold, still room. "I don't care for the dead."

"Cemeteries give you the chills?"

"No, if they're buried I'm fine. Visible..." Shuddering, she shakes her head. She needs to get her mind off the cadavers. "I have a request."

"For a day off?" he teases.

She forces a smile because she knows he's trying to lighten the mood and shakes her head. "May I sit in the front?

His brow lifts.

"Look, I understand that I should ride in back, but I'm tired of feeling like a child, and this isn't  _Driving Miss Daisy_. I'm not a wealthy woman in her seventies."

He humours her with a smile. "Sorry, Cora."

She gives him a pleading look. She doesn't want to be in the back with the dregs of a nightmare behind her, and the knowledge of the ghosts before her. "You know, I could if you'd say yes. I don't believe for one moment that Mr Holmes specifically states I must ride in back."

When this fails to change his answer, she slides in and watches him shut the door. Pulling out her phone, she taps it against her leg and leans her head against the seat. With a racing heart and chill in her bones, perhaps a second dose of her medication would help calm her.

When they arrive at St Barts, Cora marches through the doors and down to the mortuary—without a second pill in her system. With a hand on the doorknob, her heart races in her chest. She debates for several moments whether or not it's wise to take a second pill. What could possibly be the repercussions of that?

With her heart still pounding, she walks in. As the air hits her, goosebumps chase chills over her skin. Cora has trouble swallowing the lump in her throat as she spies a body on a metal table. Walking to the woman with a clipboard next to the deceased, she tries not to focus on death all around her.

"Hello," Cora greets and taking slow, deep breaths. "I'm here to collect a file for Mycroft Holmes."

The brown-haired woman looks up at her and gives a shy smile. "Oh, you must be new."

Cora gives a nod and holds out her hand. "Cora Merriman."

"Is that your real name?" The woman laughs and shakes her hand. "Molly Hooper. Pleased to meet you."

_Perhaps I missed something,_ she thinks since the name comment is odd, and she glances to the metal table next to her. By the time she realises her mistake, ice is running up her spine as her gaze settles on the corpse lying there.

"It'll take me just a moment to finish this report," the woman says, turning back to the cadaver.

Cora barely gives a nod as she watches the woman look over a few more things on the body. Cora probably would be curious if she wasn't so terrified. Her mind keeps running different scenarios where the body rises from the slab and grabs her.

"Would you like to take a look?" the woman questions grabbing her attention. "Doubt it'll bother him much. He's dead."

It's as if the world around her freezes. Her mind slows, but before it stops, she forces herself to think. If she faces her fear, will the corpse still scare her? Will it haunt her? Will it bring an onslaught of nightmares?

Forcing her body to quit shivering, Cora takes a step over. Looking down,  _Another One Bites the Dust_  starts playing through her brain. It's highly annoying, and yet, she's amused all at once. At the very least, it does make her tap her toe.

It's then, Cora gets a better look at his face. She's seen him somewhere before, but can't place it.

"Sad to see lives end too soon," the woman says as she makes a few notes in the file. She then uses the pen as a pointer. "Drugged. Small puncture mark in the neck, paralysed him. Then left in the bath to die. Must have been horrific. Poor man could only watch as he drowned."

Her gaze runs over the man as the coroner makes her final report, and wonders how long it would have taken him to die. Several long minutes, she's certain. It must have been agonising. However, it still bothers her that she can't place his face.

"Please tell Mycroft if he has any further questions, he can ring," the woman says as she places the file in an envelope and seals it.

Cora gives a nod as she takes the file. "Have a good day."

Envelope in hand, Cora keeps running that face through her mind's eye. Was it in the binder Mr Holmes gave her to memorise? She recalls all the faces and names, but can't seem to place the man on the slab. Honestly, if the file wasn't now sealed, she'd take a peek.

As she grabs the handle, the door bursts open sending her back a step. Cora looks up as a dark-haired man followed by a blond man enter the room. Sidestepping, she allows them to pass.

_Rude,_  she thinks and pauses when the blond turns to her.

"Sorry," the man offers with an apologetic smile.

Cora gives a partial shrug. "No bother."

Without another thought, she exits the room. Once in the car, she pulls the tablet-thing from her bag and pops in some stick-driver that will allow her to connect to the internet. Sighing, she knows she should get used to technology. After all, Genevieve is constantly on her touch phone—and always comments about how Cora seems like an old grandmother.

_Confounded gadgets._

Staring at the screen, Cora isn't sure what to do to search for the man. As far as technology has advanced, it still can't read her mind. With a sigh, she brings up the news to see if the government Chief Whip has reappeared or if anything new has been discovered on the case.

She isn't surprised to find no change. It's been two months since the man and his children went missing. Chances are she didn't hear the conversation between Lady Smallwood and Mr Holmes correctly, so perhaps the tabloids are correct in assuming Belfaust took his girls and ran. Tapping on an article, she wonders if they'll ever be found.

As a picture loads of Belfaust and some of his coworkers, her eyes widen. She immediately recognises the man to Belfaust's left as the man on the metal slab she was forced to stand next to. With a shake of her head, she chastises herself that she didn't recognise the Deputy Chief Whip sooner.

_Thomas Mullinger,_  she identifies, bringing up Google, and hen pecks his name in. It takes seconds before articles load, none of which hint to his disappearance—let alone his death. Instead, headlines read about the Deputy being prominently seen in pubs.

The more Cora taps, the more she sees the paparazzi have followed him extensively. Rumours of extensive drinking slander his name and lead to why he was tailed. She decides his life must have been a sad existence beneath it all since there was no privacy for him. Princess Diana crosses her mind—followed by those who've punched out photographers.

A question comes to mind though and her eyes narrow.  _How did he go missing with all this press tailing him?_

When she arrives at the office, she closes the internet and slides the tablet-thing into her bag. Grabbing the file, she quickly makes her way to Mr Holmes office. It's nearly five, and she's eager to get home so she can look further into the matter. She's never been one for press and current events, however, this deals with her job in some manner.

"—talk to him?"

There's a new voice in Mr Holmes office, and it makes her halt in the hallway. She isn't one for eavesdropping, but with the body and the abduction, she finds herself enticed further into the rabbit hole. She isn't sure why it's so alluring, but she feels wrapped in the spider's web.

"Looking into other things," Mr Holmes replies. "I asked you because I handed this case to you due to its… sensitive matters."

"And we've been out to Windsor. Initial team missed the fact Mullinger didn' own the house," the man replies.

Straightening up, Cora walks into the room and sets the file on Mr Holmes' desk. With a quick glance to the clock, she knows she's got about fifteen minutes before leaving for the night.

"Ah, Ms Merriman," Mr Holmes says and draws her attention to the man across from him. "This is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade."

"Cora Merriman." She glances him over as she shakes his hand. His hair is greying, and she imagines it's because he cares too much for his job. He's put his life into it, and the thin creases in his face reflect it. What she notices most, though, is the kindness underneath that light his eyes.

"Pleasure," he replies with a polite grin. It seems as if time has plastered such a look there for when he greets people. "Lucky new assistant to Mycroft, are you?"

She tilts her head with a shrug but doesn't respond since she can feel Mr Holmes gaze.

"Oh, do have a little fun at my expense."

Glancing at Mr Holmes, she can practically see the sarcasm dripping from him. However, since he forced her to visit the mortuary she might as well take him up on his  _kind_  offer. She looks back at the Detective Inspector. "Depends on your definition of luck."

"That it does." The man chuckles, and the plastered look fades, giving way to a genuine smile.

With a nod, she turns to Mr Holmes to ask if she can leave now.  _Would thirteen minutes truly be the end of the world?_  Before she can ask, however, a photo on the desk catches her attention. She sees Belfaust, his girls, and Mullinger.  _They were all together?_

"Are you going to ask your question, Ms Merriman, or stand there like a mannequin?" Mr Holmes questions and taps his armrest.

_Might as well._ She doesn't know if the fact she's becoming used to his guesses of her thoughts should be more worrying than she's chalking them up to be. Instead, she points to Mullinger, ignoring the second thought. "He was on the slab."

"Correct."

"He was also with the Chief Whip."

"Correct, again."

Cora looks at Mr Holmes, searching for some information that makes sense in light of everything she's seen or heard. "The press is wrong, and they don't know Mullinger is dead."

"I'm still waiting for a question."

Looking back at the picture, the same question breaks the surface. "How did the paparazzi not catch this? Mullinger is everywhere since his one true love is the bottle. How did  _no one_  realise he'd been murdered?"

Mr Holmes' gaze remains on her. There's a light dancing in his eyes that leads her to believe she's finally done something he approves of. Opening a bottom drawer of his desk, he pulls out an orange and blue bag and hands it to her. "That question can only be answered once we've discovered what became of dear Daniel."

Cora wants to break into laughter as she looks at the bag of Cheetos he's given her. She hasn't had Puffs in a very long time, and no matter how hard she tries to pretend, Wotsits just don't do it for her. A smile settles across her face at the same time confusion wrinkles her forehead.

_How did he know these are my favourite?_

"Have a good evening, Ms Merriman," he tells her before turning back to the Detective Inspector. "Let's revisit Daniel's whereabouts the day he disappeared."

Turning, she holds the Cheetos close. All she needs is a glass of Moscato and a good movie to go with the bag in her hand. Her smile grows as she thinks,  _Wine and cheese night! Yes!_

"Accompanied by Deputy Chief Whip Mullinger, Belfaust took his girls to Stonehenge for a school project one of them had," the Detective Inspector answers. "Reports state he did buy tickets to a tour, but none of the tours have record of him or his daughters. It's as if they dropped off the face of the Earth."

The tour catches Cora's attention causing pause, and she turns. The situation sounds a bit fishy to her. "No tour claimed to have seen him?"

The Detective Inspector looks at her. "None, but witnesses say he did purchase tickets."

"So, it's a Boat Ride," she informs and settles back at the desk, the chair squeaking beneath her.

"A what?" questions the Detective Inspector.

She looks between the two of them, both seemingly a bit perplexed in what she's referencing. For gentlemen who deal with security issues, she's surprised they don't know. "A Boat Ride. You know, one of those tourist scams."

"How would a stand-up government employee know  _that_?"

_What?_  Cora turns to the doorway and feels the hairs on her neck bristle as her eyes narrow slightly. Entering the room is the dark-haired git from the mortuary.


	6. Nature of My Game

The only thought bouncing through her mind as the lanky man approaches the desk are simple lyrics. The song is upbeat but weighs heavy in its meaning—something she thinks might be appropriate. Oddly enough, she's quite certain the same song could apply to her unusual employer.

All the same, she can't stop her mind from singing, ' _Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste…'_

"Giving out more  _treats_?" The tone the mortuary git uses to address her employer is vaguely reminiscent of Mr Holmes'.

_Do they spend time together?_ she questions.

Her gaze darts to her employer, Cora's never witnessed anyone challenge his authority the way this man is. She'd be lying to herself if she didn't admit that she'd enjoy seeing this man put in his place, though. After all, his greeting was just rude and inappropriate.

"No, brother, mine," Mr Holmes comments. If he's put off by the greeting, Cora doesn't see a sign of it.

However, her eyes widen slightly as the word  _brother_ registers _._ Glancing at the git again, she tries to make the connection. Apart from the dark hair, there's nothing she notices in a glimpse.

She doesn't spend too much time pondering it, however, since her gaze is drawn to the blond man lingering near the door. He sighs with a shake of his head and pursed lips making Cora assume this must be normal.

_How odd…_

"I would have assumed you'd known I had a new assistant. My, you're getting  _slow_." Mr Holmes looks at his nails as if the conversation bores him immensely.

"Has she questioned what happened to the last one?"

There's one thing Cora has learned in her lifetime and that's when she should gracefully bow out. Now seems like the perfect time. She isn't sure what will come of the brewing storm and she'd rather be home with wine, the Cheetos, and a movie.  _Not a movie, research on Belfaust and Mullinger_.

Rising from the chair, she gives a nod to Mr Holmes and turns to the Detective Inspector. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Detective Inspector."

"Likewise," he replies. A quick glance at the dark-haired man leads the Detective Inspector to give her an apologetic smile.

"Looks like the rat is abandoning the ship," the man smirks as he pops the " _P_ " of ship.

Mr Holmes sighs. "Must you always antagonize, Sherlock? I thought Mummy explained manners a tad better."

There are several reasons, she imagines, that this man—and his apparent faithful dog—were not in the binder. However, a bit of resentfulness builds because she honestly believes Mr Holmes should have warned her about… _his brother?_

In any case, her father always told her to kill people with kindness—and then reminded her it wasn't a literal statement when she tried to give her classmate a paper cut with a Valentine card because he was a bully.

Cora holds out her hand to him and takes a breath. "Cora Merriman."

Without bothering to extend a hand, he glances her up and down before responding, "No, it's not."

"Excuse me?"

"Your name's not Cora."

"'Fraid it is," she responds. Her lips purse to the right due to his intrepidness.  _He doesn't even know me._

"Mmm, no," he says with a shake of his head causing his dark curls to bounce slightly.

There's another sigh from Mr Holmes, which Cora wonders if it's a common response when this git is around. "Leave her alone, Sherlock. You're not here to traumatise her."

"Not traumatised," she objects, and can practically hear her father remind her there is no arguing with idiots.

He looks to Mr Holmes. "Given she cannot provide you her real name, I highly doubt anything we say would be traumatising."

_Wha…_  She's certain her scrunched eyes portray the fact she can't even form a sentence. Listening to three heartbeats calms her ruffled feathers. From the dynamics presented thus far, Cora decides to heed her father's advice about her words falling on deaf ears. Plus, she can feel the temperature in the room plummet making her wish she was back in the mortuary.

"Right, then," she manages and looks to Mr Holmes. "Have a good evening."

Sidestepping the man, she makes her way to the door where the faithful dog remains. There's half a moment where she wonders if he'll say something to her, but she moves into the hallway without incident. A small smile appears on her face.

_Cheetos!_

"Ms!"

_Dammit._  Rolling her eyes, she turns to see the dog trailing after her. Cora's hands are still around the Cheetos which she surprisingly hasn't crushed given the way she's clutching them. "Yes?"

"John Watson," he says catching up with her and shaking her hand.

"Cora Merriman." She forces a polite smile.  _Defending the master?_

"That your real name?" He jests, giving her a genuine partial smile as if he expects to hear that the other man has been right all along.

_Figures…_ Her voice turns curt, "Yes."

His head turns slightly. "Sorry, it's just…an assistant of Mycroft's that's truthful?"

Cora purses her lips and offers a frustrated shrug complete with a raised hand, pursed lips and raised brow. The question is an odd one— _annoying one_. She again wonders what she's missing, especially since the woman in the mortuary made the same joke but she's far too irritated to currently care. "Are… they normally not?"

"The last one was less than personable, so you're a pleasant change." Mr Watson smiles making the corner of his eyes crinkle. He then glances toward Mr Holmes's office as if he's waiting for something. "You'll get used to him, you know."

Her brow raises. "Hmm?"

"Sherlock, Mycroft's brother."

With the confirmation of the fact they are brothers, Cora's not shocked she hears the song continue to play in her head when it comes to both of them.

_'Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name…'_

_Wish I had been informed of crazy in the family._  However, there's always one so perhaps that's her fault for not already assuming.

As tension eases from her shoulders, Cora realises she's feasibly taking out her frustrations on the man before her who's simply trying to mend a bridge he didn't burn. "And I take it you're his…?"

There's a slight chuckle and shake of his head as if he's heard the implied question a million and one times before. "No. I'm not  _with_  Sherlock. We work together. Plain and simple."

"Not judging," she responds with an actual smile. Now that she isn't seeing red, she welcomes Watson's kind demeanor. It's a breath of fresh air in the midst of the dingy cell Mr Holmes keeps. "Although, I may think you're a tad crazy for dealing with that man on a normal basis, Mr Watson."

"John's fine." He grins. "And same could be said about you, you know?"

That has Cora genuinely laughing for the first time in a long while because John Watson is completely right. She's already caught on that Mr Holmes is even more peculiar than she originally assumed. Perhaps there are two in the family who are crazy.

"Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, John. I'll let you get back to that meeting," she says and turns for home.

R҉͕̣e̢̙̦̗̮̮͈̞p̶͕̞͚̻̣͉̜e̟͙͇͎͚͞a̗̻̝͎̗t̤͚̖̙̪̫ ̲̥̪A̝̩̟͖̣̬f͕̭t̥̼͍̬̀e̹r̪͍̮͎͟ ̳̪Me̫̹͚͕̜͠

_How did they not see it was a Boat Ride?_ _Scotland Yard should be knowledgeable of that sort of thing, shouldn't they?_

Henpecking through pages, she grows more enthralled as she learns more about Belfaust's nineteen-year marriage and wonders what caused the divorced rumors. Coming across an article with reports from Mrs Belfaust, she's not surprised that the wife stated there wasn't anything wrong with the marriage and that she's willing to pay whatever is asked. It continues to say that the wife pleads for their safe return.

Cora figures someone in the position Mrs Belfaust is in—whether she's guilty or not—would make similar statements. What's curious is that the article informs her it is the most recent statement made by the wife, but it was also posted over a month ago.

_A man and his daughters go missing after paying for a tour that won't take place?_ She bites her bottom lip as she rolls the thoughts around in her head.  _Then the wife stops pleading for their safe return. Now, his second in command is found dead. Which, by the way, why wasn't_ he _in the binder?_

Biting her bottom lip, she sighs. _Why can't this be in a mystery novel, and I can turn the page to find out what happens next?_

When the car comes to a stop, Cora looks up. Bewilderment crosses her features.  _I'm home already?_

In all her years, she's never been so intrigued by the news— _or perhaps a case._  She's only seen how the media skews and reports on horrific things, often times making it worse. However, the Chief Whip and his Deputy have clearly sucked her into their depths leaving her questioning how things will play out.

Stepping from the car, she nods to Henry. "Have a good evening."

"See you in the morning, Ms Merriman."

At her doorstep, Cora pauses. Leaning against the door is a package with her name on it. It's odd since she hasn't bought anything, but she's seen weirder things with Mr Holmes.

Picking it up, she unlocks the door and enters the flat. Tossing the package, her tablet-thing, and Cheetos on the lumpy, magenta sofa, Cora jogs up the stairs to her room. In no time, she's switched into sweats, has a glass of Moscato on the end table beside her, and an open package on her lap.

Biting her inner cheek, she looks over the thin book in her hand titled  _Meet Molly_. It's in pristine condition and she recognises it as a first edition—due to her father buying it for her when she was a child. It was a series she loved, but she doesn't know why it's ended up in her lap on this day.

A day when she meets a woman named Molly.

_What a funny coincidence._

After a sip of wine, Cora opens the book and begins reading. Cheetos in hand, she's quickly reintroduced to the World War Two girl. It doesn't take her long to make it through the first chapter, and Molly's just decided to be a hula girl for Halloween when Vieve bursts in through the door.

Blinking, Cora looks up to see Vieve chucking her handbag at the floor and throwing her coat on the rack.

In the next instant, her flatmate is slamming the door shut causing the pictures on the wall to shake. With a roll of her eyes and a heavy sigh, Vieve looks over at her. "Evening. Bringing work home with you?"

Clearing her throat, Cora responds, "No. Smutty novels since you're always encouraging that."

"There's one called  _Bearllionaire_. Not a lot of erotic scenes, but the man is a bear," she says in a sultry tone, pulling off her shirt before pulling down her undershirt and taking a seat at the other end of the sofa. "Except I was hoping for a down and nasty scene when he's a bear untamed and has her on all—"

"No!" Cora interrupts, holding up a hand. "That's enough."

"Course it is," she grouses, crossing her arms and glancing over. "You opened the wine without me?"

"Do I always need to wait for permission, Mum?"

Vieve hops up from the sofa and enters the kitchen. "What are you making for dinner?"

_Why do I always have to cook?_ Cora takes a long sip of wine, reminding herself that Vieve would burn down the kitchen if she was ever allowed to cook, before replying. "Leftovers."

Making her way back to the sofa, her friend flops onto it like a seal on a rock. "Good call. You need a night off."

Cora can feel herself bristle at Vieve's comments, but that's the price of living with someone.  _They do everything they can to annoy you because you can never get away from them,_  she thinks. With a quiet sigh, Cora looks up. "Horrid day?"

"Things can't always go according to plan, can they?" Vieve questions.

She shakes her head. "No, not always."

Vieve sips her wine. "I thought everything was working out, and then a fly comes along and spoils the soup. It's unnervingly frustrating."

"Life always is." Cora takes a sip of wine. Her mind subtly replays Mr Holmes' brother stating that her name isn't Cora. She bites her bottom lip and hopes he's not a fly in the soup since she actually is enjoying her job.

Just as a precaution, she grabs her tablet-thing and pecks  _Mycroft Holmes_  into the search bar, curious as to if there are any red flags. Apart from a few honours he's been awarded by the government, there's not much else on him.

_Not that I expected more. He seems to have his hand in all the cookie jars. Wouldn't be hard for him to hide information._

Popping a Cheeto into her mouth, Cora types his brother into the search and isn't surprised to see plenty of articles pop up.

_Absolutely not…_

Shaking her head, she clicks the exit button and takes a large swig of wine as she sets her tablet-thing aside. She'd rather watch trash television than deal with that can of worms. However, the lyrics come back to her again and won't leave her mind.

_'Just call me Lucifer, 'cause I'm in need of some restraint…'_


	7. Hostess with the Something

A soft breeze caresses the faces of everyone milling about the wharf, welcoming them to a whole new world. Bright rays of sunshine are broken up by clouds drifting languidly overhead. Gulls demand food as they circle round and round, landing for brief moments before taking flight again. Seals bark in the distance as they follow the fishing boats in and out of the harbour.

Horns announce the arrival of ships, drowning out every other sound for several long moments at a time. As they quiet, the warm laughter of children combats the chilly winds from the deep blue sea. Families cling tight to their little ones as they meander through the crowds, gaze taking in the sights all around.

"Papa, I want to see a whale," a little girl says, bright eyes on her father and a smile as wide as the sea. "Can we do that?"

The man's been passed several tours already and none of them promise whales will be seen. He doesn't want to spend the money just to stare at waves. To make matters worse, he isn't sure if he wants to see those bright eyes disappointed now or later.

Luck seems to be on his side as a man in a collared shirt approaches with pamphlets. His grin is as honest as the day is long, though his teeth are weathered yellow from smokes.

"Sir, can I interest you an' the young lady in a whale tour?"

The man hands him a brightly coloured pamphlet. Pictures boast of sea life seen, laughing families, and a price cheaper than anything he's yet to observe. Reading it over quickly, he does see a miniscule note in the corner about whales not being guaranteed.

The father looks up, a question in his gaze. "You don't guarantee whales."

The man laughs. "That's like tryin' to guarantee the sands won't shift on the beach, but I do know there  _are_  dolphins out there today."

_She'll love dolphins,_  the father thinks as he looks down at those bright eyes full of scepticism. Young eyes seemingly doubting the man's every word. She looks up at her father, and he can see a great conflict storming inside.

"Dolphins you say?" the father questions with a smile at his tight-lipped daughter. "That might—"

"How dare you!"

The father looks up to see a woman with hair as dark as a raven's feathers approaching the salesman. Her eyes narrow as she hisses something in another language. He thinks by the words it could be French, but he's not certain.

The man's eyes widen with a certain amount of fear as he bows his head. "Je-Je suis navrée," he stutters before taking leave.

Turning towards him, the woman pulls the pamphlet from his hand. When she speaks, it reminds him of a soft English wood. "The first tour you see on the dock is your best chance at seeing whales."

The little bright-eyed girl grins.

R҉͕̣e̢̙̦̗̮̮͈̞p̶͕̞͚̻̣͉̜e̟͙͇͎͚͞a̗̻̝͎̗t̤͚̖̙̪̫ ̲̥̪A̝̩̟͖̣̬f͕̭t̥̼͍̬̀e̹r̪͍̮͎͟ ̳̪Me̫̹͚͕̜͠

Jabbing at the tablet-thing, she punches a meeting into the calendar for Mr Holmes. Her chest constricts like a rubbish compactor and her jaw clenches every time her mind replays pieces of the earlier conversation with the dark-eyed, nearly bald man.

_"I'm truly surprised, Mycroft. This is the best you could do for an assistant?" Sir Edwin sniffs. "Well, given the state of this office, clearly your standards aren't what they used to be."_

"High standards," she grumbles from the new black, leather chair in the corner next to the window—white trim freshly repainted. With a glance to the men installing a large television on the wall same wall as the door, she runs her tongue over the front of her teeth as she reserves a table for Mr Holmes' at  _The Landmark_.

_"Thought there was a weight limit, Mycroft?"_

The man was lucky she needs a job. Otherwise, she'd be willing to wager that he'd be missing a few front teeth and his nose would forever be crooked.

Gripping the armrests on the semi-oversized chair, she crosses her legs and ignores the fact she's a size eighteen on a good day—though if she was American she'd only be a fourteen—and picks up her buzzing mobile. Flipping it open, she sees three new messages from Genevieve.

' _Your birthday's next week!'_

_'Pub crawl?'_

_'Stripper?'_

A smile crosses her face as she gives a shake of her head. Cora's glad that Vieve seems to be back to her normal self in spite of whatever was bothering her. After all, the two of them have plenty of good times—as long as Vieve doesn't get too wild.

_Perhaps I'm a bit of an old lady…_ Cora thinks and hits reply.

_'Fine, pub crawl. Maybe not the stripper.'_

Cora closes her phone. Pressing a corner of it to her lips, she looks about the room. The desk is in place as are the chairs, and now the television. Something doesn't seem entirely right though, and she can't quite put her finger on it. With a breath, Cora stands as one of the men approaches.

"It's set up for ya," he says with a grin.

She tries to focus on his face rather than his olive arms which are a tad more orange than they probably should be. "It looks splendid. Thank you."

He holds out a clipboard for her to sign and after she does so, he hands her a business card. "Should ya need another telly installed…or maybe ya just need some work done. Pipes cleaned…"

The wink he gives her has Cora sending him to the door and down the hall. Sighing, she settles in Mr Holmes chair and swivels back and forth as she rips the card to shreds. Throwing the pieces into the air, she watches as they rain down like confetti.

"Having a party?"

Looking up, it takes Cora a moment to place the woman in the doorway. She's dressed in black slacks and a purple sweater, which are unfamiliar, but the light brown hair reminds her of the mortuary.

_Oh, that's right_ , she realises and Cora bites her tongue as she tries to recall the woman's name. "Yes, care to join…?"

The woman walks over to the desk with a file. "Molly. Molly Hooper."

_Right, the book. I should have known that._ Wincing, Cora gives a nod and brushes the pieces into the bin. "Sorry, I'm not good with the dead. Tends to affect my memory."

"It's not for everyone," she replies with a soft smile, settling in one of the new chairs that arrived the day before. "I was told Mr Holmes would be here. I've brought a few more reports I believe are linked to his case."

"Mullinger?"

Ms Hooper nods, her brow puckering with curiosity. "He's talked to you about it?"

"Sort of." Which puts it lightly. He seems to want her involved, but since she refuses to eat the preverbal cake, he just dangles the case like a carrot before a horse. Cora rises from the desk and walks to the semi-oversized armchair she was seated in earlier. She fixes its position a quarter of an inch before looking back at Ms Hooper. "It's a matter of national security, I understand."

The woman nods again. "I'm sure you deal with that a lot."

"Not as often as you think," Cora responds and moves to a chair in front of the desk, shifting that a full two inches to the left. Running her fingers over the black leather, her gaze shifts from the mahogany wood on the legs to the polished surface of the desk. Her lips purse as she wonders if she knows how to  _actually_  design a room.

"Do you know how much longer he'll be?" Ms Hooper asks.

"I'd wager maybe ten minutes." Her finger taps on the screen of one phone to check the time as she pulls out hers. Checking her mobile, Cora opens it and clicks on a new message from Genevieve.

_'Stripper it is.'_

_Please, Jesus. No. No, don't let that happen._ Her breath turns to icy sludge in her chest, because she knows Vieve will follow through with that commitment. There is nothing on God's green earth that makes Cora want a nearly naked man dancing for her. However, that odd feeling comes over her again and she looks about the room trying to figure out what's not in place.

The pictures are all straight— _Mr Holmes made sure of that._  The blessed Keurig sits gleaming proudly on a table next to the window. The curtains are gathered evenly on both sides of said window. The books are all in line on their respective shelves. The woman sitting in the other chair fidgets with her fingers, and it's then Cora grimaces.

In all honesty, Cora's been a horrid hostess—though, to be fair it's not really her thing. Regardless, she's making the situation uncomfortable. With a breath, she tries to amend it. "So… Ms Hooper, how long have you worked in the mortuary?"

"Molly, please," she corrects with a soft smile. "I've been there a while. Close to seven years, now."

Cora gives a soft laugh. "Wow, and you're okay with the…"

"Cadavers?" the woman chuckles. "Yes. It's sort of a requirement for the position."

"And that's not difficult for you?" she questions and takes a seat at the desk.

"No," Molly answers. "The way I see it is most of them end up in my care far too soon, and I want to give them a voice as to why. If I can provide an answer for a family or loved one, I've done my job."

Cora smiles. It's the sweetest thing she's ever heard anyone say. Some days she forgets there are still nice people in the world—not that Mr Holmes hasn't treated her well. However, there are mysteries about him that Cora could never solve, and while Genevieve is decent, Cora's seen her use others' weaknesses to her advantage one too many times.

"What about you?" Molly questions. "Have you always been an assistant?"

There's a pause before she shakes her head. "No. I used to be a server. Mr Holmes found me and requested I aide him."

"He's a bit…odd, but he can be helpful." Molly's nose wrinkles slightly. "He's probably not easy to work for."

Cora shrugs. "Doesn't tell me much, not that I blame him. I am new."

"He and Sherlock had a… _challenging_  case a while back. Made them both think differently about the company they kept, so that's probably a bit of the problem."

"Seems as if you always learn a little too late."

Molly nods as if she understands that lesson  _far_  more than she'd like. "Well, John seems fascinated that you're giving your real name—despite what Sherlock thinks.  _Anthea,_  as the last assistant named herself, wasn't entirely…"

"Personable?" Cora questions to which she receives a nod. "So, I heard. What happened to her?"

There's a shrug. "I'm not sure."

Biting her cheek, Cora wonders how many peculiar things take place with those who are involved in the Holmes' circle. She wonders if the cake Mr Holmes refers to has anything to do with said oddities.

In any case, she finds something rather endearing about Molly. She's not pushy like Genevieve. She's calm and that's something rare. Something Cora could use more of in her life.

"So…" Cora begins, and her mind runs through several awkwardly phrased questions before she settles on, "I wanted to visit the museum–a museum, but I don't want to go alone. If you find yourself with nothing to do, would you like to go?"

Molly's eyes widen as if someone's just told her she's won the lottery. "Really? I haven't been to any museum in quite a while. It's always an adventure. Being in the mortuary all day with less than chatty guests isn't… Well, not many friends to be made there."

Cora laughs. "I could see troubling friendships."

Molly gives a gentle smile which barely curves her lips. "Yeah, but I'd love to go to the museum."

"It's a plan." Looking up, she sees Mr Holmes enter the office. He casts a glance her way, making her wonder if he was standing at the door eavesdropping, before settling in his chair.

"Hello, Ms Hooper. I see you've brought new files," he says, taking them from her. "Did Doctor Watson enjoy looking these over with you?"

Her face turns bright red, and she stammers, "No. I…I…I did this all by my—"

Mr Holmes chuckles as if she's a cat who's just had a fright. "Easy, Ms Hooper. I mean nothing by it."

Cora's brow quirks as the right side of her lips pull back. She questions his sense of humour. Clearly, they all know each other, but not all of Mr Holmes' jokes seem kind of spirit. Maybe it's the placement—

_That's it…_ Blinking, she looks back at Genevieve's text. It's the placement that seems wrong. Cora knows her birthday is the twenty-ninth of September. She's celebrated it on that day her entire life because that's the day she came into this world. However, the placement still seems off, and she can't figure out why her brain is telling her so.


	8. Orange and Black

She shifts and tugs on the outfit she was forced into for her birthday. An outfit she's cursing Genevieve for.  _Chic, my ass._

The dress is exceedingly uncomfortable. It's stiff and makes her look more like a box than a person. She's certain it's nearly the colour of a Cheeto as well—and as much as she loves that treat, she doesn't want to  _be_ one. What's more is Vieve didn't give her a choice in wasting her hard-earned cash a few weeks back and forced her to wear the atrocity today.

" _Oh, you look perfect!_ " Cora grumbles, mocking Genevieve's voice as she shifts in her chair by the window.  _If perfect is looking like a carrot._

She's tried to keep her coat on as much as possible, but it doesn't keep the brilliant flashes of orange from making appearances here and there. Plus, the room's warm and she finds herself sweating, something she isn't keen about. She isn't sure what's worse: the outfit or the sweat.

Mr Holmes has given her several looks throughout the day, and she knows he doesn't approve of the outfit—or possibly what to make of it.

Filtering through a few emails, she checks the time and is pleased to see she only has fifteen minutes left. Working today has certainly been hazardous since not only can't she focus, but every five minutes Cortana pops up in an attempt to drive her over the edge.

When that unholy circle—nearly the colour of her dress—pops up again, she's growling.

_"I can learn to understand you much better if I can get familiar—"_

"Piece of shit," she grumbles and clicks out of it again, earning a raised brow from Mr Holmes. She barely makes it to another window before Cortana pops in again. Cora slams the keyboard. "Oh, f—"

_"—alk. I need your permission—"_

"Everything okay?"

Cora looks up at Mr Holmes.  _As if he can't hear._  However, she catches the grimace on his face at her outfit.

"Window's assistant," she apologises to which she receives a nod. "Sorry for the commotion."

"It can be a frustrating programme," he says with a glance around the room. He clears his throat. "I've neglected to mention this office was well thought out—"

"Genevieve," she says, cutting him off. "She thought this looked good on me, and now I look like a traffic cone."

There's a slight curve at the very corners of his lips as he silently observes her.

"That's what you're wondering." She finally shrugs out of her coat revealing all of its grotesque appearance. "You've been staring at this atrocity all day."

"No, you've kept it covered." The curve lengthens a tad into a smirk.

"Because I  _hate_  this dress!" Her exasperation bounces off the walls as she tosses her hands up. "Told her I didn't want it, and she made me buy the damn thing anyway, then tells me to wear it to work. I don't want to be this bright in the dungeon. I'm not the bloody exit sign."

"Sounds as if you need to vacate your residence."

Cora finds herself smiling in spite of how frustrated she is. "Probably. Who knows what she'll dress me up as next."

Her smile dies when Mr Holmes glances to the door. She follows his gaze, and while no one's materialised she has a funny feeling she's not going to like the owners of the footsteps she hears. Her suspicions are confirmed when moments later John and the brother enter the office.

She stiffens, hoping her cheeks don't turn tomato in colour, as both of their gazes' snap to her and they freeze. John openly winces while the brother's brow quirks.

"That—" John stops himself and clears his throat. "Good day."

The brother, however, continues to stare as if she's an attraction at a sideshow. She'd never tell anyone, but she'd agree with that thought. Thankfully, he keeps his mouth shut.  _This time._

Mr Holmes looks at him and shakes his head. "Sherlock, whatever you're thinking—"

The brother glances to her employer. "I didn't know they made the black boxes for aeroplanes so large."

Cora's brow quirks, but John beats her to the question. "What are you talking about?"

"Her outfit," he explains. "Looks like a black box with a head sticking out."

The fact none of the men speak up in her favour lets Cora knows it's time to burn the abomination she has on. For several moments, she debates the best way to go about that. She's not above the idea of setting it alight while she's still in it.

Mr Holmes looks over at the two men. "What is it you've come to say, Sherlock?"

With a purse of her lips and a slight heat in her cheeks, Cora starts working on another email when Cortana starts yelling at her, again. She slams a hand to her head.  _Damn it all!_

The brother walks over to the desk. "Reynard—"

"Not this  _again_ ," her employer interrupts with a long, drawn-out sigh. "Sherlock, I've already told you—"

"You haven't told me anything. In fact, you refuse to say anything about it. It's a pressing matter related to the Chief Whip's disappearance, and you're acting as if all is well."

"There is nothing to substantiate your claims," Mr Holmes replies, a sharp bite in his tone as his eyes narrow. "I've already told you to forget this matter."

"A matter  _you're_  ignoring because it serves  _your_  needs."

It's in their exchange Cora's curiosity is truly piqued. There's a slow burn starting in her chest and lapping through her veins that has her craving to know more about this Chief Whip story. Craving to know more about this office. Craving to know more about what's beyond the confines of the assistant title.

However, her mobile vibrates reminding her she needs to get going. Quietly, she grabs her stuff and exits while the two men continue to bicker about the matter at hand.

Making her way to the car, Cora pauses when her phone vibrates again. Flipping it open, she reads:  _'Friends from the theatre are coming. Get home ASAP. I'm dressing you!'_

If she could audibly groan, she would. It's  _supposed_  to be her night, and Vieve's bringing people she doesn't know. Well, if that's the case, maybe someone else could join her.

Clicking open another message, Cora sends a text.  _'Plans for tonight?'_

Thirty-two seconds tick by before a message pops up.

_'No.'_

Cora feels the corner of her lips twitch as she types:  _'I'd be indebted if you could join me.'_

She's just climbing into the car when her phone vibrates. She flips it open.

_'Where do I meet you?'_

A smile slides onto her face as she sends Molly her address. She then texts Genevieve that there's another member added to the party.

_At least I'll have someone there…_

R҉͕̣e̢̙̦̗̮̮͈̞p̶͕̞͚̻̣͉̜e̟͙͇͎͚͞a̗̻̝͎̗t̤͚̖̙̪̫ ̲̥̪A̝̩̟͖̣̬f͕̭t̥̼͍̬̀e̹r̪͍̮͎͟ ̳̪Me̫̹͚͕̜͠

Despite not participating in the events around her, Cora still feels filthy. Disgusting, dirty, contaminated, obscene; they all do little to describe how she truly feels. In fact, she's not even sure God will look at her after this. What's worse is she dragged poor Molly into it.

_Shortest. Friendship. Ever._

Cora doesn't like the water being thrown on her nor the shrieks from around her. To make matters worse, Genevieve put her in a black corset she probably shouldn't be in and black jeans so tight she feels like she's suffocating—except the rips in the knees allow those to breathe. Given the surroundings Vieve's dropped her into, it seems like she wants to be here since she's dressed for it.

The nearly naked man in front of her continues to rub himself all over her as the bass booms in the background. Her limbs can't stop trembling as her heart pounds in her ears. She's wondering if she could grab her pills, but the man in front of her refuses to move. Probably because Genevieve keeps putting bills in his…  _pants?_

From her estimate, it's past midnight by the time she's able to come up for air. She feels herself being tugged from the chair, pulled into the lobby, and out the door. The chilled night air immediately brings goosebumps to the surface along with a wave of nausea.

Her fingers yank open her bag as she claws through in her desperate need for pills. Pulling them from the depths, her sweaty palms can't seem to grasp hold of the lid. A hand settles on her shoulder, warm and soft as the rays of sunlight. The comfort she feels in the squeeze gently slows her racing heart and freezes the tears clouding her vision.

"Let's get something to eat."

For the first time, Cora looks up to see her saviour is none other than the woman she invited on a whim because Vieve didn't care. There's an overwhelming urge to hug Molly, but instead, her gaze drops to the ground.

A gentle hand cuffs around her left wrist, since the pill bottle is glued to her right hand, and tenderly leads her down the street. There's turmoil slamming back and forth like a cyclone within her mind— _soul?_  How could someone be so kind after sitting through that? Doesn't Molly blame her for all of this? Isn't it her fault?

The small pub Molly leads her to is surprisingly quiet at this time of night. The place isn't the cleanest, but Cora puts her pills away as her muscles unwind. Sitting in a torn pleather booth, she relaxes into the cushion. It isn't long before drinks and food arrive.

"That was a new experience," Molly jests, picking at her sandwich.

Cora's lips move, mouthing, "I'm sorry", but her voice is nowhere to be found. She stares at the table as she tries to push crotches from her mind. The music in the pub seems to swell in her ears and echo through every fibre of her being doing nothing to help what she tries to forget.

_'You can't have my heart, and you won't use my mind...'_

"When I was young, I looked up to my older sister. Charlotte was my entire world. We were close, the kind where you'd be best friends forever. We'd laugh and take strolls in the woods behind our home. Built a treehouse and everything. It was our safe place."

Cora looks up at Molly. The woman is staring at her glass, and smile fading like a sunset.

"I didn't know how much of a safe place it was for her. I always thought it odd she'd keep me hostage in the tree house whenever Mum's brother came over— _step_  brother," she corrects with a gut-wrenching frown. "He used to make me laugh and always came with gifts. But I always heard Char tell mum she didn't want him to babysit. Never understood."

Cora shifts in the booth and places her hands under her thighs. Dread leaks into her veins mixing with the guilt and blame for ending up at the stripper show. Thick waves of nausea return making it hard to swallow, much less concentrate. Taking a deep breath, she focuses on Molly. Cora doesn't quite follow where the woman's ultimately going, but she has a feeling she isn't going to like it.

"She was always afraid of being around boys. As we grew up, she shied away from their advances. I wasn't exactly chased by the boys, so I couldn't understand why she didn't love the attention. I'd have done anything... Shows how naive I was.

"My third year at Uni, I try ringing Char one day. Tried and tried, but no answer. After classes, I went to her flat…" Molly hesitates and looks at the table. "I'll never forget her hanging there. Police believed it was an open and shut suicide, barely thought more of it—coroner included. My parents blamed themselves, I took a semester off. We lived under this wretched cloud. 'Til one day, five months later, this man says she was murdered. Forced the coroner to inspect further and the case then turned into a homicide. Wasn't long after Mum's brother was arrested."

Cora feels her mouth open as her eyebrows rise. Chills rush over her skin chased by goosebumps. It takes several moments for her to realise she isn't breathing. Her mouth closes as she watches pain swell up in Molly's light brown eyes.  _Death is never a welcomed companion_ , she thinks.

"He'd been seeing her all those years. Told her if she ever told him no, he'd kill her and me," Molly's nose flairs and her eyes begin to gloss. She swallows roughly and takes a shaky breath. "She tried to stand up for both of us, to finally have a life, and the bastard killed her. It's why I decided to focus on the dead instead of the living. I don't want another family to live with a lie because someone won't do their job."

It's suddenly warm then freezing cold in the pub. Cora's nails dig into the pleather booth making some of the holes larger. Her heart pounds against her chest trying to burst free from her ribcage.

Clearing her throat, Molly continues, "You act like her, you know? Fearful of the attention, shying away, silent. Something happened to you, too. I'm not asking you to tell me, we barely know each other. I'm just letting you know I…um…well, I don't understand, but I know it's terrifying, and I'm here if you need someone."

She utters not a word, but her fingers release their grip and she places them in her lap. Her breathing slows as her body begins to relax. She mulls over what the woman just said and finds herself able to manage a soft nod.


	9. Perception

It wasn't the fact that Cora received a text asking her to begin an hour earlier. She was up already—had been most of the weekend scrubbing off stripper—so it's not a huge ordeal. Nor was it the fact he asked her to come in sweats and bring a change of clothes—she's used to odd requests. No, what's peculiar is that three months in, she's been told to meet at his residence. A place she's never been thus far and was hoping to never go to.

When the car comes to a halt, Cora steps out and looks up at the austere manor. It reminds her of its owner with straight lines and a perfectly manicured garden. Nothing is out of place, nor is anything welcoming.

Pausing on the front step, she places her fingers around the handle and opens the door. Her gaze immediately is drawn to the gleaming black and white checkered floor. Stepping across it, she pushes open the double doors.

It's there she pauses. Eyes wide, hand over an open mouth.

To her left sits an exquisite ornate mantle fashioned from solid oak. To her right stands a wooden spindle staircase. Across from her are several windows with warm sunlight peeking through polished glass. Red rug adorns much of the floor and the furniture is breathtakingly stunning.

The entire room is warm and inviting. There are a few sharp edges and sophisticated pieces, but overall, she feels as if she could sit by the fire and read a good book. There's a small tug in her chest that recognises it's the first place she's felt safe in a very long time.

Which shatters the illusions surrounding her boss like glass breaking against a tile floor. Cora is faced with the realisation that she has no idea what he  _really_  does or who he  _truly_  is.

As she moves past the staircase to a hallway on the right, she rubs the back of her neck. There's a disconnect between what she's thought and what she sees. A disconnect between her reality and the truth. The question becomes: what does she do with that? How does she alter her misconceptions? How does  _she_  change?

Walking down the hall, Cora bites her lip as she follows the directions given earlier. The fifth room on the left holds an open door and the oddest sound—like someone's  _jogging_. Entering, her brow rises as she sees Mr Holmes on a treadmill in a black track outfit.

_What in the world?_

Cora doesn't miss the slight smile on his face. She wonders if it has anything to do with his most  _recent_  dinner for two at  _The Landmark._  There's simply no possible way it could be due to working out.

_Who actually enjoys_ that _?_

"I did not invite you here to be a statue, Ms Merriman," Mr Holmes pants and nods towards another workout machine.

She barks out a laugh as she looks at a bike. "What?"

He looks at her from the treadmill. "You're going to join me for morning exercises. It'll be good for you."

"Presumptuous of you," she replies and shakes her head. "Who said I wanted to work out?"

"If you can't fit into the traffic cone anymore, it will no longer be a concern."

_Eating would do that,_  she muses since all she wants to do is feast and put on a jacket. Nonetheless, she  _still_  feels dirty after Friday night. Cora isn't sure getting in shape is going to help that mentality. Crossing her arms, she bites the inside of her cheek.

Stopping the treadmill, Mr Holmes hops off and walks over to her. "Ms Merriman, the choice isn't  _that_  difficult."

Cora shakes her head. "Thank you kindly for the offer, but I respectfully decline."

"That's not the correct answer," he replies.

Clearly, she isn't going to have a say in this as Mr Holmes has already decided for her. Damn her own idea of sitting on the sofa with Cheetos and a bottle of Moscato!

_However_ … Maybe this can be used in her favour. After all, she does need to attend Vieve's play, and she doesn't want to go alone.

Squaring her shoulders, she looks up at him. "I'll concede to this if you attend Genevieve's musical with me."

"A good theatre production can be uplifting for the spirit. What is she performing?"

" _Les Mis_."

He rolls his eyes and walks back to the treadmill. "My parents wanted to attend that ghastly musical a few years back, and Sherlock refused to take them. It was horrid to sit through."

Cora catches that he has not quite told her no, and she wonders if she pushes a bit harder if he'll give in. "If you want me to exercise with you, you have to attend with me."

Pausing next to the treadmill, he looks at her for several long moments. There's a smirk in his gaze, and she can't help but think she's gained some sort of respect from him. "Perhaps, Alice, you're more prepared for the cake than either of us realise."

"That's not the correct answer," she parrots, swallowing back a smile.

The smirk appears as a hint on his lips before disappearing entirely. He climbs on the treadmill. "Fine. I'll sit through that atrocity. The earliest time I have available would be November. Is that too late?"

Cora snorts because she has a feeling he's trying to get out of going. "No, that's fine. First week of November. I'll let her know."

R҉͕̣e̢̙̦̗̮̮͈̞p̶͕̞͚̻̣͉̜e̟͙͇͎͚͞a̗̻̝͎̗t̤͚̖̙̪̫ ̲̥̪A̝̩̟͖̣̬f͕̭t̥̼͍̬̀e̹r̪͍̮͎͟ ̳̪Me̫̹͚͕̜͠

_Shower. Sleep._

_Shower._

_Sleep._

She's dead on her feet. Or was until arriving at the flat.

Now, she sits next to a sleeping babe— _her name's Rosie_ , she recalls. On the telly, some girl sings about the ocean—which Cora's pretty sure the lava monster is the island but does she care?

_No._

Had she known what Mr Holmes set her up for, she would have gone straight home. But no, all he told her was John was needed at the mortuary. He neglected to mention that she was required to nanny for the blond man.

Nor that there was the possibility the child would break her flip phone, which presently lies in pieces in her purse.

_At least I don't have to deal with the brother_ , Cora thinks as she pokes through web pages with various articles on just how off his trolley said sibling is. The sad part is she's got more open tabs than she knows what to do with. There is a part that's highly amusing since the tabs look like little shark fins; almost as if a frenzy of them are circling because there's blood in the water.

Currently, though, Cora's reading John's own personal blog. Several posts have intrigued her, swallowing her into the depths. The mysteries are rather curious at points. However, she feels exceedingly humiliated. She hadn't the slightest idea that John was a doctor or she wouldn't have said  _Mr_ Watson. The fact he didn't correct only heightens the embarrassment.

Munching on baby carrots, she comes across a post detailing how the brother apparently died. There isn't much on the blog about it, so she's forced to find another shark fin that will explain.

It doesn't take very long for her to find mention of suicide. Apparently, the brother jumped off St Barts roof, and she navigates to several other tabs with information on why. While she discovers there's no truth to a majority of the articles on his apparent fraud, she does see a Richard Brook— _Jim Moriarty?_ —falsified documents to bring down the brother.

Slowing her chewing on a new carrot, she looks up at the crab dancing across the screen. The crustacean is professing how he loves to talk about himself, but her brow is lifted for other reasons.

_Who fakes their death?_

It's a concept she doesn't understand. Can't comprehend. Nor could she. Friends and loyalty are rare in this world. Why would you deceive those closest? Why would you lie to your best friend? Why pretend to be dead?

Several blog posts later she finds his return from the afterlife. How he wasn't truly dead but had to pretend he was to save those closest. All because of that Moriarty fellow again—a criminal mastermind, apparently.

It's at that point, Cora dims the screen of the Surface Pro. She could understand a day, perhaps even a few weeks…but two years? That is a  _very_  long time to be dead. It's a long time to fool friends with a cruel lie.

Her attention is caught by a luminous manta ray on screen. Pulling her knees to her chest, she watches as a glowing woman talks about scars healing and revealing. Cora wonders if that's what happened with John. The pain did reveal that he never once doubted his friend's honesty. On the contrary, he believed the brother had a gift. To that effect, there's something more though that turns inside her.

He  _forgave_  his friend.

_Does that make it right?_  Cora questions.

Rising, she paces the living room. There has to be something she's missing. Something about what makes it okay for someone to lie about death. What makes it okay to spend  _two years_  under the guise of the grave? What makes it okay to keep that from your friend?

Music from the telly draws her attention. The glowing stone  _was_  stolen from the island that turned into the lava monster as she surmised. However, the girl is saying that doesn't define it— _her_? The island is not her heart?

_Then what is she?_

Cora's jaw clenches because something about it reminds her of that insistent "observation" from the brother. Reminds her of how every time he shows up lately, her very being is brought into question.

_"Ms Merriman, I need you to research the contents of this file," Mr Holmes tells her._

_She flips through the document to see it's about trees. She's not certain what that means in the scheme of things, especially when it comes to the Chief Whip, but she can't complain. She loves the busy work._

_"Run along,_ Annabelle _," the brother orders with a dismissive wave. "Make yourself useful."_

_"_ Sherlock _," Mr Holmes warns._

Anytime the git shows up, she's always put through the fire. If Cora could understand  _why_  he was constantly haggling her, she might not be so bothered by it. She doesn't have a reason, though. There is no basis for an attack since her name  _is_  Cora, and  _that_  aggravates her more than anything.

Picking up the sleeping baby, she carries the child to her bedroom and lays her down. Cora smooths a hand over Rosie's hair.

_John did trust me with his child._

John must be crazy to allow someone he barely knows to watch his child and perhaps that's why he allows the brother into his life. Maybe that's why he forgave the brother for lying. Or maybe there's a deeper sense of trust. One that she doesn't understand. One that might discern as to why the brother lied for two years.

As she moves to the leave the room, Cora pauses and looks at a picture on the wall. In it, a woman is smiling and holding an infant who she realises must be Rosie. A smile crosses her features. While she hasn't seen the woman, it's always nice to see a happy home.

"Mary."

Turning, she looks to see John standing by the door quietly observing her.


	10. It Makes Me Mean

Cora watches as John walks to the picture. His gaze is soft with memories, and she recognises it's better to remain silent. There's a tenderness about him, and she knows in those moments people reveal themselves the most.

John looks at the picture as a sad smile stretches across his face.

"Her name is—was Mary, and I never thought I could love anyone as much as her." He glances to Rosie and his smile blossoms into a happy one. "I suppose that wasn't entirely true."

There's a twinge in her gut like a knife slowly rotating. In the world, it's rare to find someone like John Watson. Loving fathers are few and far between. Swallowing roughly, she does her best to put on a brave face and give a nod.

Turning, John leads her back into the kitchen. He motions for her to take a seat at the table as he sets to work making a pot of tea.

"Unsupportive parents?" he guesses while waiting next to the stove. His gaze doesn't seem to miss the wound in her loud silence. Maybe it's because he's a doctor. They tend to see injuries of all kinds.

"I suppose you could say that." She shrugs. Her finger traces an invisible pattern on the table. "News said Mum ran away. Refused to declare her dead without a body. So, official report is she left. Which for all I know could be just as true as she was abducted by green aliens."

John pulls two cups from the cabinet. "Must be hard to never know."

"Busy dealing with the bitch of a nanny and a brother who checked out of the family while Father worked constantly." It earns her another glance which she waves off. "Don't worry. Father made sure I had the best education to make up for it. Apparently, education and boarding schools are far more important than anything else."

The look he gives her is one she's seen many times before. She hates pity, hates that he's giving it to her. She doesn't need it. She can survive. She always has.

He clears his throat and brings her a cup of finished tea. "It can be difficult to… deal with—"

"Your daughter will be fine," she says because if he's wondering about his dear one, well, he shouldn't. She looks down at the steaming liquid. "She has solid support from those around you. She'll turn out fine."

"I wasn't concerned about her."

Cora refuses to look at him. She doesn't need pitying glance. She doesn't need the cup of tea. She doesn't  _need_  anything.

"Every good parent is concerned about their child," she responds, shifting the subject. "It's common."

The smile John gives her lets on that he's merely humouring her. And that's another thing she  _doesn't_  need.

Her jaw clenches. "What?"

"You're cold when you're afraid of opening up."

"How would you know?"

"First time we met. You had every right to be angry, but then your walls came down. From tightlipped to smiling."

"Certainly, there was a reason for my attitude." Cora taps a finger on the cup, gaze on the liquid inside. "I imagine other people are that way when dealing with the antichrist."

John's sigh comes off as a laugh. "I assure you, he isn't."

"Lied, died, came back from the dead." Her brow arches.

"Sherlock isn't as bad as you're painting him."

To that, Cora says nothing since loyalty is a blessing and a curse. She looks away and simply sips her tea.

"I know he seems like a dick. And he is," John admits. "Don't expect that to change. But do try to understand, Cora, he's simply protecting his brother the only way he knows how."

R҉͕̣e̢̙̦̗̮̮͈̞p̶͕̞͚̻̣͉̜e̟͙͇͎͚͞a̗̻̝͎̗t̤͚̖̙̪̫ ̲̥̪A̝̩̟͖̣̬f͕̭t̥̼͍̬̀e̹r̪͍̮͎͟ ̳̪Me̫̹͚͕̜͠

The alarm hasn't signaled it's time to work out. Her aching muscles convince her not to move. However, the buzzing on the nightstand succeeds in pulling her from sleep. Rubbing her eyes, Cora picks up the phone.

"Lo?" she yawns.

_"Ms Merriman, I need you to come in."_

Panic rushes through her veins as she sits up. Her eyes dart around the room looking for some indicator of time. She can't believe she slept through her alarm. "I'm so sor—" She pauses as she realises her room is dark. Wetting her lips, she mutters, "What?"

_"It's an urgent matter."_

Cora leans forward and places her free hand to her forehead. "Sure."

_"The car is waiting."_

_Apparently, I never had a choice._ Tossing her phone to the nightstand, Cora flops backward. She doesn't want to leave the warmth and comfort of her sheets. She's devastated to be woken when she finally was getting  _some_  sleep.

While she lays there, lyrics swarm what little thought function she's capable of.  _'Well you can trace, lines in your face… But it's the weight of your spirit makes you old…'_

Dragging herself from the bed, she dresses and throws her hair into a tight bun. She's aware she's brushing her teeth when she pushes the brush back too far and gags. Shaking her head, she finishes, grabs her phone, and goes down to the waiting car.

_'Hold your hands up high…I'll see you by and by.'_

The streets are mostly silent as if the place has become a ghost town in the last few hours. Checking her phone, she sees it's close to three now. Entering the car, she looks at the balding man in the front seat. The rearview mirror holds no secrets as he looks tired as well.

"'Lo, Henry."

Cora isn't sure if she received a reply because the next thing she knows, Henry's shaking her awake. She attempts to rub the sleep from her face as she walks into the building with a large yawn. She doesn't need to hear the clumsy clatter of her steps to know she's stumbling down the hallway. Once in the office, she doesn't bother walking to Mr Holmes. Making a beeline for the coffee, she's brewing herself a cup without so much as a word in his direction.

_'Though you hate to see it go,'_ her mind continues as she puts the cup in place.

"Thank you for coming in, Ms Merriman."

She believes her head gives a nod. All she knows is that the Keurig isn't brewing nearly fast enough for her likes. Once it does finish, however, she's filling the rest of the cup with cream and blowing on it—eager to take a drink.

"Have a seat, Ms Merriman."

Taking a sip of her life source, she obliges by settling in her seat by the window.

"Did I wake you?"

_'This old world's just put pennies on your floor…'_

Cora slips off her shoes and tucks her legs next to her as she curls into the chair. She can feel the dark circles around her eyes glaring at him, and he manages to give an apologetic look. Her head lulls back leaving the ceiling to occupy her gaze.

"What good is an assistant who sleeps?"

She jolts awake to find that the brother and John have joined them and are both currently settled at the desk. Maybe it's lack of sleep, but there's something amusing about the way the two are seated there. The brother appears as if he's some sort of eternal being who never needs to sleep, while John is clutching a cup of coffee and managing not to yawn—two very different people with one common purpose.

_'And all I've seen…'_ Cora's mind continues to play as she sips the coffee. She raises a brow in Mr Holmes direction.

"Thank you for meeting this early," Mr Holmes says which sends Cora checking her phone to see that it's now quarter to four. "My schedule doesn't permit any other time today."

Yawning wide, she knows that's the truth. He's booked solid from six in the morning—well, apparently now three—until seven tonight. She yawns again and thinks about dozing off against the chair. She takes a large sip of coffee in hopes the yawns will flee.

"Ms Merriman, please present your information on the trees you researched," Mr Holmes says.

_'And all you've done…'_

With a tilt of her head, her brow scrunches together as her mouth slightly opens. She gave him an entire folder on it the other day. Why did she need to get up at such an ungodly hour to present the information? With a glance at the men at the desk, she sees John's face reflect the same puzzlement.

Cora takes a long drink from her coffee and internally questions,  _Why me?_  With a deep breath, she says, "The focus tree has the widest range of all the European species. An older name for it is the Wych Hazel. Occasionally, it can reach around a hundred and thirty feet—"

"You're American?" the brother interrupts.

Blinking, she can't quite comprehend what he's saying. However, she does have the wherewithal to shake her head no.

"She spent some time across the pond," Mr Holmes answers for her.

Cora gives Mr Holmes an incredulous look as her head significantly tilts to the right. For a moment she believes there are several things she never tells people, and that's one of them.  _Perhaps I am a liar?_ Her eyes squint.  _No, I'm always honest with Mr Holmes. I don't keep secrets from him—mostly 'cause he knows 'em all._  However, the idea of being outside of London seems foreign. Her mind tumbles back and forth, but she says, "How would you know that?"

Mr Holmes looks at her as if the answer should be obvious, and perhaps it is. But she hasn't slept very well and can't see straight. Her thoughts are a jumbled mess. In addition, her cup is now empty. She finds herself more than irritated by his comment and lack of answer thereafter, so she rises and goes to refill.

The second cup isn't ready in time for the verbal assault.

" _Someone_  shouldn't be addressed before three cups of coffee. Clearly, a monster lurks beneath that façade."

" _Sherlock_ ," Mr Holmes scolds, and she can hear he's beside her.

_'It means, I swear I did no harm.'_

As she pours cream into the second cup, her irritation continues to grow like wildfire as her right eye twitches like crazy. There's a part of her that's aware she needs to simmer down, but she's slightly chilly and wishing for nothing more than to be dozing in bed. She can run on little sleep. However, no sleep is where her limits are pushed.

_And all over a damn tree_ , she thinks. Then again, she isn't sure of anything.

Sipping the cup, she turns and looks about the room. Her gaze settles on John who's rubbing his eyes. From the creases in his forehead, she can tell he's confused about why they're both there. She should feel grateful she's not the odd man out, but he's probably more aware of what's happening than she. Cora's only certain she feels like a wave tossed by the ocean. Closing her eyes, she focuses on the only memory that can calm her.  _…the sidewalk ends, and before the street begins—_

Which stops the song for a few seconds.

"Cora, please continue with the trees."

"Read the bloody thing yourself," she grumbles at Mr Holmes and sucks down the toffee-coloured liquid. It isn't long before she's back at the Keurig. Part of her is surprised no one's speaking given two of them seem to never cease. However, those two are currently looking at each other, apparently conversing through brain waves.

Taking a sip of the new warm liquid, she still can't stop her eye from twitching. However, she knows her breathing is currently steady. Perhaps she can make it through the day as a zombie. Maybe because she came in early, she'll get to leave early.

"They grow one hundred and thirty feet?" questions the brother.

She looks at him and nods. "Forty metres, yes. They typically have a broad crown where open-grown. Flowers appear before the leaves in early spring in clusters of ten to twenty. The tree is susceptible to Dutch elm disease. The tree requires deep rich soils like those found along river valleys, although, it doesn't take well to flooding. Its species is on decline as of late."

"What about bugs?" the brother asks.

Cora can hear a slight tone as if he's pressing to see how much she researched. It makes her think he already knows about the subject matter—which he probably does.

She glances to Mr Holmes. "Caterpillars. Sometimes aphids. There are a few interesting facts like they used to be associated with melancholy and death because the tree can drop dead branches without warning. It was also the preferred choice for coffins."

Mr Holmes turns to his brother and the two seem to exchange another conversation without words. Nothing in the world can make Cora interested in their absurdities. All she knows is she's trying to get every last drop of coffee from the mug without resorting to licking it clean.

"I'm sorry," John says, fighting off a yawn. "Did we need to wake early to become dendrologists?"

The brother casts a glance at Mr Holmes. "I told you three cups."

_'Don't want no sugar in my coffee…'_

And that does Cora in. Her fingers clench around the mug before she hurls it in the brother's direction and storms out.

_'It makes me mean, Lord, it makes me mean.'_


	11. Skewed Percerptions

The picture is full of nearly nude people, but she's fascinated by all the movement found within the lines. Each one causes her eye to shift throughout the painting, inviting her to take a deep looker at the work of art.  _Bacchus and Ariadne_   _is beautiful,_  she decides, especially in light of Titian's story he created within.

"What's this one about? You seem to gravitate towards it?" Molly whispers.

Knowing full well Molly is capable of reading, Cora appreciates the woman asking her questions. She appreciates that just like the painting, Molly invites conversation. In addition, she's certain the woman knows a bit more about these mythical paintings than she admits, but Cora can't quite prove that.

Turning her head slightly towards Molly, but continuing to focus on the artwork, Cora explains. "The myth says Ariadne, daughter of King Minos, flees with Theseus after saving him from the Minotaur. However, when they reach the island of Naxos, he abandons her there."

"That's so tragic," Molly comments, her gaze focused on Ariadne and Bacchus.

"It is," Cora responds. "But when Ariadne turns from the sight of her fickle lover's departing ship, that's where she makes eye contact with Bacchus, the Greek god of wine. In that moment, they fall deeply in love. The stars on the top left are said to be Ariadne's wedding crown Bacchus tossed into the air at their marriage, though, it could also signify that he turns her from mortal into a constellation so she could live forever with him."

Molly gives a tiny grin as she gazes at the painting. "That's romantic."

Cora gives a shrug. She doesn't find the idea of love at first sight very appealing, considers it a crock truth be told. Who could know someone's personality from a simple look? Who could know what secrets hide within? It's a very precarious situation to place oneself in.

"You don't find it sweet," Molly assesses.

Cora doesn't want to offend the woman in any way. She does enjoy the solace she takes in someone whose demeanor is calm and doesn't want to lose it. "Did you and John fall in love at first sight?"

Molly stiffens. "We're not…"

Wincing, Cora crosses her arms. How did she jump to that conclusion from an off-handed comment? "Sorry, I just assumed. Mr Holmes said... I am terribly sorry."

The woman fidgets with her sleeve but doesn't respond.

_Strippers didn't chase her away, but that comment did._  Cora gazes at the artwork, making sure to avoid all contact with Molly.

"He helps me out in the mortuary a lot," Molly whispers. "Not that he needs to. I think it's just his way of saying thank you for taking care of Rosie. Though, it is nice to have the company. But John… doesn't want Sherlock to know."

Cora's rather fascinated by the idea they're keeping it a secret from the brother. "Because…?"

"Well, you've met him, haven't you?"

She's forced to nod at that and remind herself that he's one crayon shy of an empty box.

"Also, I may have…at one time, liked Sherlock."

She can't stop her lip from lifting in semi-disgust.

"He's extremely smart and does care about the people he helps, even if he doesn't show it," Molly defends before admitting, "Quite an asshole, though."

Cora gives a chuckle as they move to another painting. "John's not that way."

Molly shakes her head with a smile. "Not at all. And he doesn't need to be brilliant; he is in his own way. He's funny and caring." She looks away as her cheeks redden. "It's just nice to be around someone who's kind, and doesn't look like Sherlock."

Cora smiles until her last comment when her brow quirks.

"I was still trying to get over him," she admits. "Didn't help that his sister forced him to tell me he loved me."

"Sister?" Cora questions, taking a deep breath before letting loose a sigh. "There's  _another_?"

Molly looks as if Cora's picked up on the wrong topic of everything she's just stated, but gives a nod anyway. "Yes. She's apparently smarter than either of them and far more dangerous."

She wants to ask another question because she's curious why she's never seen  _that_  sibling _—_ and relieved, to be honest. However, she's just realised why Molly gave her the look she did. "You were humiliated by the I love you?"

Looking at the picture of the dying flowers, she nods. "It hadn't been a good day, made worse by the fact Mrs Hudson was watching Rosie. Taking care of someone else would have helped the situation, but… Sherlock rang, and rang again. When I answered, he kept telling me to tell him I love him. Tells me it's for a case. An…experiment."

"What?" Cora questions with a laugh, and then clears her throat. "Sorry, I just… How does someone justify that behaviour? Forcing you to say what's supposed to be a meaningful phrase?"

"When all was said and done, I was told the sister was going to kill me if I didn't say. Come to find out, he lost. The damage was done."

She crosses her arms. "Yet, you still interact with him?"

"It's been over two years," Molly says. "Had you met me right after it happened… I didn't speak to him for nearly a year. I just busied myself with work and taking care of Rosie for John. Time heals wounds. There might be scars, but the pain doesn't have to be permanent. It's better this way. It's been good for me."

They continue through the gallery, where Molly pauses at a picture of  _Venus and Mars_  by Botticelli. Cora's rather amused by the way Mars is passed out in the midst of fawns causing havoc. What sets a partial smile on her face is Venus looking as if she cares not what the troublemakers do to her sleeping companion.

"They're lovers in the myths," Molly says, confirming Cora's suspicions that she knows mythology. "I love how Mars is asleep and unarmed with Venus being awake and alert. That meaning of love conquers all is important."

Cora doesn't immediately respond. Honestly, she's not sure she believes in such things. People say cliché phrases all the time to make themselves feel better. However, they're also not exposed to some of the things she's witnessed.

All the same, she's confused how Molly can still be so hopeful. She's had her heart dragged through the mud, and yet, still remains hopeful and optimistic. How can Molly consider what happened to her positive?

Cora turns to her. "You consider it a good thing?"

Molly's quiet for several moments. It was a difficult question, but the question itself doesn't seem to be the issue. It seems to be the response. When Molly finally answers, it's something Cora doesn't expect. "You don't think time heals all wounds?"

"Did I say that?"

"You asked me if I considered what happened a good thing. I do, but you don't."

Cora crosses her arms. She can't seem to grasp the point Molly is trying to make. "I can forgive people, I do, but something that deep… How can you be so forgiving over something so painful?"

"I said I didn't speak to Sherlock for a full year. It is extremely painful to have your heart toyed with and yanked around. It's never easy. It's not something I enjoyed. There were a lot of moments full of tears. This didn't happen overnight," Molly patiently explains.

In that moment, Cora decides she truly likes Molly. She is strong and gentle. She isn't overbearing like Genevieve, and it's just the thing she needs after everything.

Cora rubs the back of her neck and looks at Molly. "You are a Venus among many Mars."

The woman laughs, but Cora wishes she could be like her.

R҉͕̣e̢̙̦̗̮̮͈̞p̶͕̞͚̻̣͉̜e̟͙͇͎͚͞a̗̻̝͎̗t̤͚̖̙̪̫ ̲̥̪A̝̩̟͖̣̬f͕̭t̥̼͍̬̀e̹r̪͍̮͎͟ ̳̪Me̫̹͚͕̜͠

Cora doesn't want to admit she's exhausted, but she keeps jolting awake as her head drops. Despite four cups of coffee, there is no relief from the fatigue. To make matters worse, Mr Holmes is in a meeting for half the day so there's no one to stop her from falling over.

A scuff at the door causes Cora to sit up. Blinking, she watches as Sir Edwin strolls in, hands behind his back. His gaze scans the room, and for a moment Cora wonders if he's in search of Mr Holmes. When his sights finally land on her, he straightens a little. "Ms Merriman."

Rising from her chair, she inclines her head slightly. "Good…" She glances to the window and realises it's still early. "…morning, Sir Edwin."

"Mycroft's in a meeting, correct?"

She nods. "Yes, Sir."

"Come with me," he says and turns.

Grabbing her phone, Cora follows him down the hall and down a flight of steps. When she enters a waiting area, her brow rises. There's a desk with a nameplate and a door to the right of that. She's surprised to see a reception office, especially since  _she_  works in the  _same_  room as Mr Holmes.

"Jacqueline is out for today," Sir Edwin informs, tone curt. "While Mycroft is in his meeting, I need you to answer phones, tidy up this place—no cobwebs—and wash the windows."

"Aren't two of those tasks something maintenance and cleaning should take care of."

"I am not certain what you're familiar with, Ms Merriman, but around  _here_  we do assist each other." Without another word, he walks into his office and shuts the door.

"I do help Mr Holmes," she grumbles and yawns.

Cora shakes her head as she moves to the windows. Grabbing a cloth and cleaner, she works on making the wide window spotless. Again, she's surprised to find that Sir Edwin has a waiting room and Mr Holmes does not.

_Why is that?_

Once she finishes the windows, she busies herself with the assistant's desk. She sorts files into a neat stack, cleans off the computer and phone. The only thing she finds odd is some powdered sugar in corners of the desk. If the woman is anything like her, maybe she likes powdered sugar on her brownies or perhaps good cannoli.

As she picks up a broom and begins to sweep, Cora bites her lip.  _Perhaps Sir Edwin is simply a more important figure than Mycroft._

That thought, however, is not something she entirely believes.

"You don't appear to be maintenance."

Turning, Cora sees a man leaning against the doorframe, dark eyes observe her as she sweeps the hardwood floor. She stiffens and rolls her shoulders back. A quick glance lets her know he's someone important. Mainly because he's dressed in a three-piece suit just like every other government man in the building.

"May I help you?" Cora questions as he makes his way towards her.

"Where's Jacqueline?"

"Out sick." Cora studies at his square-ish face and chestnut coloured hair.  _He's not in the binder._

" _Again_?" Chuckling, the man shakes his head. "Probably not the best day for you, then."

Her grip on the broom tightens. "I enjoy cleaning, so it isn't horrendous."

"Where'd my father dig you up?" His gaze looks her up and down, a soft smile in his eyes. "You're not the help."

_Father?_  Blinking, Cora finds she doesn't like this revelation.  _Is this entire building mainly family members?_

Taking a step closer, he holds out his hand. "Sorry, perhaps I should introduce myself first. Alexander Cunningham."

Wiping her hand on her skirt before shaking his hand, she wonders if he's anything like his curt father. "Cora Merriman."

"Ah, Holmes new assistant he keeps tabs on," Alexander says with a smile. "Doesn't allow you to go very far, does he?"

Her brow furrows. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, the last one turned on him."

Cora doesn't make any movement despite being utterly shocked to find out the mysterious  _Anthea_  apparently betrayed Mr Holmes. However, it does make sense that the brother is so suspicious of her.

He's simply protecting family.

Which is what John hinted at, after all.

In addition, maybe that's why Sir Edwin has been anything but pleasant.

Luckily, she doesn't have to respond because her phone begins to buzz. For once, she's grateful that Mr Holmes is calling. She hits the green button and presses it to her ear. "Yes, Sir?"

_"Where are you?"_

She can hear the annoyance in his tone, which immediately sets her on edge. She doesn't want him upset, especially when it's not her fault. "Sir Edwin's office. I'll be there in a moment."

_"Do your best to hurry."_

She doesn't need to hit the red button, since he hangs up on her. Looking at Sir Edwin's son, she gives a slight nod. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr Cunningham—"

"Alex, please." He smiles, and she's certain it would charm most other women since it is a lovely smile.

"Alex," she corrects. "Have a pleasant day."

Without another look, Cora moves past him and towards the door.

"Would you be averse to a drink?"

Pausing, she looks over her shoulder. "Excuse me?"

"A drink," he repeats and walks to her. Slowly, he removes the broom still in her grip. "I know how stressful Whitehall can be, and I was wondering if maybe you'd enjoy a drink."

Alex flashes that grin again, and Cora finds herself unable to say a word. What's more is a yawn is trying to creep up her throat which she doesn't want it to win. In any case, it is a charming grin, and he's exceedingly polite. Plus, she has heard a moment of humour in him.

_Maybe this will get Genevieve off my case,_ she thinks and it's why when he hands her his phone, she puts in her number without another word. Without a word, she quickly makes her way to Mr Holmes office with that smile spinning round and round in her head.

Cora pauses in the doorway and looks to Mr Holmes behind the desk. His dark gaze rises from his laptop to meet hers.

"Why?"

His tone with her is curt and she tenses. "Jacqueline called out."

He rolls his eyes. "Of course, she did. It's payday and her dealer has been waiting. Why Edwin hired that smackhead is beyond me. Snorts everything she earns."

Her eyes widen slightly before she swallows roughly and approaches the desk. Taking a seat, Cora bites the inside of her cheek as she wonders if she should say something about Anthea.

"It's easier if you speak your questions aloud," Mr Holmes comments, voice warming to her again. "Sometimes even  _I_  struggle with being a telepath."

A half smile creeps onto her face, and she hopes maybe his mood is lightening. "Sir Edwin's son says you don't allow me to go very far from you because you want to keep a close watch on me."

"At this point, Ms Merriman, I'm curious to know if you know what the word  _question_  means." His gaze shifts back to the laptop screen.

The light-hearted tone in his voice puts her at ease. She leans back in the chair and taps the armrest. "He said Anthea turned on you. Do you fear I'll do the same?"

Mr Holmes looks up from his laptop, closing it, and focuses his attention completely on her. "Everyone is different."

"You've already proven everyone has a price tag."

"Have I, Ms Merriman?"

_Hasn't he?_  she wonders.  _I_ am _here._

Cora's head tilts to the side as she crosses her legs. With her elbow on the rest, her hand reaches up and catches her chin.

"You're confused."

Her lips purse to the right as she weighs her replies. She could tell him no and explain what she means. She could change the subject. She could even possibly leave. However, there's another answer, and she tries not to smile through it.

"I'm always confused in this place."

Her comment earns her a rare grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those you have kudo'd. It means so much to me! <3


	12. Chapter 12

"Home alone again last night, I see. Perhaps you should get a cat."

Cora ignores Mr Holmes' brother. Tapping on the Surface Pro, she continues her work as if he isn't there. She's not willing to deal with an argument in light of the cramps she's facing—though she's certain she'd win said argument with as temperamental as she is.

"Nails freshly painted for no one," he muses. "It's not a surprise you don't keep company. How can you be open when you're lying?"

She does well to keep her face neutral which is a feat since she's sure her uterus is using knives to climb out. If she could have OD'd on Paracetamol she would have, except she ran out of pills this morning.

"Do you know the tale of Calypso?"

"The king and his men stole the queen from her bed, and bound her in her bones," Cora quietly quotes from the third  _Pirates of the Caribbean_  movie.

"No, not the  _child's_  version," he sighs with a roll of his eyes. Turning his attention back to her, his gaze seems to be searching for something, and his voice is low when he speaks. "The nymph from Greek mythology who kept Odysseus on her island to be her immortal husband. She enchanted him."

Leaning back in the chair, she taps her armrest. The thought crosses her mind that he's accusing her of shagging his brother. There isn't a chance in the world she'd  _ever_ do…  _That?_   _Him?_

"The name itself means to conceal, hide, deceive—"

"Sherlock," John chimes in from his seat at Mr Holmes' desk. "Mycroft's vetted her—"

"Shut up, John," the brother scolds, keeping his eyes on her. "It also includes concealing knowledge. Calypso would fit you better than Cora."

Standing, she taps her foot on the floor as she looks up at him. "Do you do this to everyone you meet?"

"You're very good," he acknowledges, ignoring her question. There's something he's digging for, reaching for, but she hasn't a clue what. "Mycroft doesn't see it. He thinks because of what he's heard about you, you're safe, which truly is amusing given his affinity for  _knowledge._  Little does he realise…"

"Realise what?" she growls when he lets the sentence die. "That his brother fabricates lies and cases when he's bored?"

A brow lifts slightly. "That was years ago. Check your facts; you'll discover I was innocent."

Her abdomen cramps and makes her wish she didn't have to wait for the scheduled delivery. Pain does nothing to help her case as she glares at him, her tone soft and threatening. "You can either sit in that chair over there and wait, you annoying bastard or get the f—."

" _Children,_ " Mr Holmes chides as he enters the room which sends the brother to a chair at the desk. Walking to her, Mr Holmes hands her a bottle of Paracetamol before taking his seat.

_Bless him._ Collapsing into her chair, she opens the bottle. Downing two—then a third—she grits her teeth as she waits for it to take effect. Cora vaguely notices Greg walk in, shut the door, and give her a sympathetic look.

_If only men truly understood._

"Good afternoon, Detective Inspector," Mr Holmes greets as he eyes a file which Greg hands to him. "I assume this is why you requested an audience?"

Nodding, Greg settles into a chair. "There's been another."

"Body?" Mr Holmes questions.

Hand on her abdomen, Cora's not certain she cares about another death. It's not something that truly piques her interest. Even her phone vibrating doesn't stir her from her curled position in the chair. Instead, she tries to peck at the Surface Pro making it seem as if she's working.

"Abduction," Greg says drawing her attention. "Richard Bran and his wife, Sophia. He's the high-tech mogul launching the Argos satellite into orbit next month."

"Kidnapped same as the others?" the brother inquires.

"From what we can tell," Greg responds. "Only this time it was a tour of the London Tower."

Cora's brow scrunches. A new place and a new set of people. It's no longer just an official and his daughters. It's no longer a man on a slab. It's no longer limited to certain people. If that's the case…

Sitting up, she looks at Mr Holmes. She just needs one glance, so she can have the floor for an  _actual_  question. However, when his gaze flicks to her he merely gives a subtle shake of his head.

Gritting her teeth, Cora manages not to roll her eyes. Of course, she's silenced because the brother's in the room. Pulling out her phone, she sends him a text:  _'Are there others that we don't know about because they have no title?'_

While waiting for him to check the message and ask, Cora clicks on the new text she has.

_'Dinner tomorrow?'_

Her lips purse to the right. Alex said drinks,  _not_  dinner. Also, her cramps will  _not_  go away by tomorrow. However, she glances at the brother and her jaw clenches. If she goes on this date, she won't have to hear his cat comments anymore.

Nor will she have to listen to Genevieve.

_Two birds, one stone,_ she thinks and responds she would love to.

"Have you looked into other missing persons reports?" Mr Holmes questions, and Cora glances up to see his phone in his hand. "Ones not associated with high profile?"

"We haven't gotten anywhere with that," the Detective Inspector replies.

" _Outside_  of the country," the brother sighs.

"Mr Bran is French," Mr Holmes clarifies. "Perhaps there are others who have gone missing and we're looking in all the wrong areas."

R҉͕̣e̢̙̦̗̮̮͈̞p̶͕̞͚̻̣͉̜e̟͙͇͎͚͞a̗̻̝͎̗t̤͚̖̙̪̫ ̲̥̪A̝̩̟͖̣̬f͕̭t̥̼͍̬̀e̹r̪͍̮͎͟ ̳̪Me̫̹͚͕̜͠

As she enters the flat, she prays there's only one person inside, otherwise, the two bags in her hand are not going to be used for their intended purpose.

Shutting the door she turns to see Vieve looking up from the sofa, smile sliding onto her face.

"Why so late? It's nearly eleven," she questions as she walks over, and gives her a hug. Genevieve looks at the bags. "That McDonalds?"

"What do you think?"

Vieve grins and pulls her bag from Cora as she sings, " _Give me back that Filet-O-Fish, give me that fish_."

Cora chuckles and follows the dancing woman to the sofa, which she notices has been upgraded. Settling onto the cushioned, sleek, grey sofa, Cora digs into her French fries.  _Les Mis must be paying her decently._

Vieve hurries to the kitchen before coming back with two wine glasses and a bottle of Moscato. She fills the glasses before settling on the other side of the sofa.

"I love you," Genevieve says between bites of her fish sandwich. "I've been eating nothing but salads to stay in these outfits, and I needed real food. I'm not meant to be a rabbit."

"How's  _Mis_  going?"

Vieve shrugs. "I would say well. I always like performing. I just wish I could eat everything I want, but my metabolism isn't what it used to be."

Cora knows Vieve's always been stick skinny and doesn't see where she's starting to gain weight. However, Vieve's all about appearances, so it's not a surprise she's on about weighing so much. Cora looks around the room and takes a bite of her Big Mac.

"So, how's this job that stole you from me? Still going well?"

Cora shrugs. "I like James Bond. His brother's a royal arse, but that can't be helped."

"There's always one in every family."

"True." And Cora hasn't locked in her final answer if both brothers—and the mysterious sister—are insane-asylum-certifiably-crazy. She looks at Vieve. "Keeps wanting me to be more… I don't know, involved?"

"How can you be more involved? You start work earlier than agreed and lately you've been staying longer. What else does he want from you?"

Cora takes another bite of her burger to avoid the fact Mr Holmes specifically wants her to eat the proverbial cake.

"Cora, you  _need_  to tell him no. Set boundaries now or he'll walk all over them."

_Like you do?_  Cora thinks but immediately regrets the thought. She's just tired and in pain. Instead, she eats a few more fries.

"Just say you can't," Vieve continues on and sips her wine.

_If only it were that easy…_  Cora knows full well that it's a simple solution to say no, but it's not an easy problem to fix. If she tells Mr Holmes she can't, well, he won't accept that.

If she says yes…

Vieve huffs a sigh and her shoulders sink as she gives an annoyed face. "You never do as I say. It would save you a world of trouble if you'd just listen to me."

Cora swallows the burger bite in her mouth.

"I simply want the best for you. I'm looking out for you, Cora."

Looking at Vieve, her flatmate is giving her the most genuine look Cora's ever seen. Tears are in Genevieve's eyes, but she quickly wipes them away.

"At least you're not getting married on top of it," Vieve says and finishes her Filet-O-Fish.

Cora tilts her head slightly to the side but decides not to mention Alex since  _that_  will be blown out of proportion. "True."

Vieve leans back on the sofa, brow quirked. "So, why you're in a mood tonight?"

"Cramps." But squeals sound in her ears as a pink thing darts across her mind's eye. "And…there was an incident at work."

"Incident? Details."

Cora shakes her head as she finishes her fries.

_Looking at the clock, it's nearly ten and she's_ still _waiting for the damn package. Her foot taps impatiently as she questions why everyone can't deliver when they promise. When a man wheels a large crate into the office with the words "Caution: Live Animal" stenciled on the side, she can't be more thrilled._

_"Delivery for Ms Merriman?"_

_"That's me," she says and walks over to sign for it._

_The man flicks a latch. "Policy requires we show the order was live when received."_

_There's a grunting coming from the box, so Cora holds up a hand. "No need. I can tell it's alive."_

_"Sorry, Ma'am, it's required."_

_"Sir, I beg of you—" But she doesn't finish because the latch he opens drops the side and out sprints a bright pink pig. Cora turns to watch it squealing and sprinting all over the office._

_"Ma'am! I'm so sorry!" the delivery man rushes after it._

_"For God's sake," she groans, running a hand over her face, as the Benny Hill theme song starts playing in her head. She runs to the door and shuts it, trapping the pig in the room._ Best not to let it into the rest of the facility.

_Cora works on cornering the animal while the delivery man profusely apologises and keeps frightening the poor creature. She wishes he would just leave and let her deal with his blunder. As she backs the pig into the corner to the right of the door, she hopes the delivery man doesn't interrupt. She'd squat down, but seeing as she's in a skirt, Cora doesn't want the incompetent man behind her to get a whole other show as well._

_She doesn't foresee Mr Holmes opening the door and looking over at her._

_"What in the name of the Queen…?" He flicks his umbrella slightly._

_The pig squeals, darts between her legs, and out the door._

_"Dammit!" Cora shouts and sprints after it. She loses her heels somewhere in the hallway as she chases the bacon into a supply room and slams the door shut. Taking a deep breath, she squats down and clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. She debates on using "Hooey" or "Sooey" depending on where the pig came from._

_"Here, pork chop. Be a good pig and come here," she calls softly. Hobbling forward, Cora's still in a squatted position—since she doesn't care what the pig sees—as she keeps speaking with it. The pork seems to settle down enough to let her pick it up and hold it like a puppy._

_Exiting the room, pig in arms, Cora's greeted by the crate, delivery man, and Mr Holmes. She places the creature in the box and latches it tight._

_Mr Holmes holds her heels out to her._

"Holy… You're… So, you're a farmer, now?" Genevieve asks.

Cora lifts her hand and shrugs. "I am whatever he needs me to be."

"You could sign up for Farmer's Only. They'd line up with the fact you can wrestle a pig."

Cora sighs and rolls her eyes. She's glad she hasn't chosen to mention she has a date tomorrow night.

Vieve sips her wine. "Damn, does that mean you're going to dress as a farmer Friday?"

Taking a long sip of wine, Cora tries to remember what Friday is. She winces. "Halloween. Right. No, not a farmer."

"Good." Vieve grins. "I have the perfect outfit."

* * *


	13. Chapter 13

Cora truly tries to be open to the restaurant. Alex chose this location and with it comes the understanding that he is a vegetarian— _at best_. Which simply means the menu is free from any form of delectable bovine or poultry and she's left to pick out the best sounding salad.

That's not the  _real_  drawback of the restaurant. No, in all honesty, she doesn't mind salads. There are some days she chooses to be a rabbit. She just prefers a place where the lettuce is a tad crunchier and less…  _slimy_.

Again,  _that's_  not the worst part.

What truly bothers her is that her heels keep sticking to the floor.

Which is what really turns her stomach about the place.

And all that runs through her head is a musical line about spreading pitch on the stairs, and she's caught unawares, and something about how it means that he cares. All of which might be true, because she's clearly stuck in some goo—

Cora blinks.  _Wait, why am I rhyming?_

"So, from your perspective, what's it like working for Mr Holmes?" Alex asks gaining her attention, and he chomps on what appears to be a burger—which she knows is a veggie fraud.

Playing with the wilted lettuce on her plate, she clears her throat. "He's decent."

"Anyone can be  _decent_ ," Alex comments and takes a sip of his drink. "Does he treat you well?"

She nods. "I enjoy working for him. He's been kind."

"Father says he likes to throw his title around, but that he's a very smart man."

She doesn't miss the small dig and finds it odd. The only time she's heard Mr Holmes use his title was when the rug went missing. In fact, after three months of working for him, she can only speculate about his responsibilities.

Regardless, Cora doesn't like how Alex speaks of her boss and her job. So, she gives a shrug in reply and checks the time.

It's been a total of thirty-four minutes now, and her room seems like a far better place to spend the night than with him. After all, she wouldn't have to stick to the floor or listen to digs about a man that pays her bills.

_God,_  she chastises. _Why am I not more receptive? This is what I want. Right? Vieve says I shouldn't be alone forever, and I hate cats. This is an open door._

"You probably don't want to talk about work," Alex comments drawing her attention, again. "You spend long days there, and I imagine you need some sort of break."

Just as she's ready to snap about  _another_  dig, he chuckles. It's lighthearted and that lovely smile doesn't hurt. She finds herself returning his smile as she chalks her emotions up to a bad case of PMS.

_I'm being such a bitch._

Glancing down, Cora moves the slimy lettuce around the plate forming it into the Loch Ness Monster. "So, have you ever been married?"

"No, never." He gives her a sheepish grin as he lowers his voice. "Can I tell you a secret?"

_Probably wanted to marry Princess Diana,_  she thinks and nods.

He voice softens more causing her to lean forward. "I usually bring dates here to see if they like me, or the idea of money. Most don't go past the first date, which is probably why I'm not married."

_Well, the floor is sticky._  She gives a chuckle. "You don't normally frequent here?"

His face crinkles as he laughs. "It's good food, but not fine dining. Plus, they don't have any meat on the menu."

Cora pushes Nessie's lettuce mouth into a frown as she considers the good food comment. Looking at him, she bites the inside of her cheek. "I suppose that's a secret I can keep."

"What about you?" he questions, mischief creeping into his eyes. "No previous marriages?"

She can't help but hear Mr Holmes' comment about her being a lone wolf. "Hard to find romance when everyone is simply looking for a shag."

Alex nods and takes another bite of his faux burger. "Finding the fairytale is a lot harder than the films make it. Might be time for you to wake up from the dream of finding a perfect prince."

"Never said I was in a dream," she states, trying to convince the PMS side of her to calm down.  _Why does_ every _man assume that every woman is trapping herself in a castle and singing a tune?_  "Fairy tales are idolized, and the perfect relationship doesn't exist. Romance isn't beyond human function, though. Sometimes… it just takes digging."

"You're not looking for perfection?" Sighing, he playfully wipes his brow. "Here I was thinking I've a lot of work ahead of me."

_He enjoys a challenge?_ Cora wonders and gives a half-smile. "I do have  _some_  requirements."

"I guess time will tell."

She gently bites her tongue but can't figure out why she's so bothered by that comment. Again, though, she finds herself trapped in lyrics about how can she know who she is till she knows what she wants, which she doesn't. The thought is extremely confusing, and she isn't sure how to respond.

Luckily, the telly catches her attention giving her an out so she doesn't  _have_  to respond. The words  _Cadmean_  are slapped across the screen. From what she can tell, there was a robbery at a place she thinks is named Cadmean but still no leads. The image flashes to Greg Lestrade, but it's too loud in the restaurant for her to know what he's saying.

"Been following that, have you?"

She looks at Alex. "What?"

"Cadmean's issue?"

She shakes her head.  _The what?_

"Cadmean Association. They're a consulting firm that was robbed a few weeks ago."

Cora gives a nod, but her thoughts are more focused on the fact that the Detective Inspector is involved. She could have sworn that Mr Holmes said Greg's team was only working on the abductions.

_Didn't he?_

"Do you not know about Cadmean?"

The question pulls Cora from her thoughts. "Not really. I don't follow the news."

"Mr Holmes allows that?"

She looks at him, slightly miffed the work topic surfaces again.

"Figure he might have an issue with that." Alex grins as he calls for the check. "It's okay that you don't like the news.  _I_  wouldn't force you to watch it."

All the trains in her head derail at once. In the wreckage, only one thought makes it to the station.

"You're looking for this…to go somewhere?"

Handing over his card to the waitress, he fixes the collar of his shirt. "That's why I asked you out. Too presumptuous of me?"

_Yes,_  she thinks. Cora leans back and the chair wobbles from the uneven legs. She doesn't even know this man, and she certainly doesn't want to be attached to anyone. But would it be a horrible idea if she started thinking of marriage?

_No cats…_

She rubs her left arm. "Depends on how crazy you are?"

Alex laughs before finishing his drink. "I don't think I'm  _that_  unagreeable. I wouldn't keep you hostage or anything."

Fear shoots icy through her veins. She isn't sure why, and she knows it isn't because of the man before her. However, his words remind her of a very dark room. Taking a breath, she breathes out the chill. "No skeletons in your closet?"

It earns her another chuckle. "I enjoy watching rugby and football, maybe a bit too much. But…I can keep a roof over your head."

For some reason, that sounds exceedingly appealing. She doesn't want to be an old maid, and as more years' tick by she considers maybe her standards have been far too high. Just having someone to come home to sounds tantalizing. Although, her stomach is growling and the disgusting salad before her is starting to look extremely appetizing, so maybe she's not fully in her right mind.

"We'll see," she answers with a slight smile.

When they exit the restaurant a few minutes later, Cora's more than pleased. While she waits on the curb for a cab, she's planning her shower and a hot meal. Her stomach growls in agreement.

"I had a good time with you tonight."

Cora looks at Alex whose full attention is on her, and she rubs her arm. "It was nice."

_Awkward, but probably since this is a first…_

"So, you'd  _want_  to do this again?"

_If there's better food_ , she muses and nods. "Perhaps."

Alex smiles that charming smile he's been giving her all night before leaning in and kissing her. Cora takes a step back as her eyes widen and lips purse. She looks up at him, and his head is slightly tilted as if he's confused.

"Did I read that situation wrong?" he asks.

_Obviously…_ And for the life of her, she can't reason why he'd think she wanted that—in public no less. Cora thinks she gives a nod as the cab pulls up, but she can't be certain. "Have a good evening, Alex."

R҉͕̣e̢̙̦̗̮̮͈̞p̶͕̞͚̻̣͉̜e̟͙͇͎͚͞a̗̻̝͎̗t̤͚̖̙̪̫ ̲̥̪A̝̩̟͖̣̬f͕̭t̥̼͍̬̀e̹r̪͍̮͎͟ ̳̪Me̫̹͚͕̜͠

"You look stunning in white."

_Like I looked amazing as a traffic cone?_ Cora looks at Vieve and smooths out the corset, tugging at the corners. "This is not ideal during  _this_  week."

Vieve looks her up and down and shrugs. "Just check yourself, or you'll look like the devil."

"You're lucky I'm not cramping anymore, or you'd be going out alone." Wobbling, Cora tries not to trip in her heels. If she falls in front of these people, she'll be mortified.

With a glance, her friend scoffs. "Are you trying to tuck your tits away? This isn't the time to play hide and seek. You're in a corset for God's sake."

She sucks in a quick breath. "I don't know if he'd approve."

"No, he's pissed 'cause you refuse to show off his work. Now fix it."

Pausing, Cora sighs and adjusts her chest. The corset holds her firmly in place, but it also reveals a tad more than she'd like. She shimmies her shoulders and feels the wings correct themselves. Her brow rises as she looks at Genevieve.

"Damn," she whistles. "If you don't get shagged tonight, it's because you didn't try."

Cora rolls her eyes so far back it hurts. "Even if I wanted to shag someone, which I  _don't,_  I have my—"

"Cora, please. Not everyone finds  _that_  a turn off." Despite Cora's scrunched and disgusted face, there's a smirk on Vieve's lips as she runs a hand over Cora's feathery waist. "You're going home with your husband tonight."

_Good thing I didn't tell her about the date._ Cora pulls away and glances in a shop window at her reflection.

If it had been anyone else, she would have envied them. Vieve's a whiz when it comes to contouring and colour choices. The white outfit she chose is one of the good ones. It traces every curve leaving just enough to the imagination that any normal person would definitely be sharing a bed tonight.

However, Cora feels extremely uncomfortable and actually wishes she was in the tight leather pants or the traffic cone dress instead. Not that she's completely prude, but there's more of her revealed than she'd like—and still Vieve wanted her to wear less.

Like Vieve is in less since Cora isn't sure a skimpy devil costume that's basically a bra and bikini bottom is an outfit to begin with.

"Let's find you a demon to tap that!" Vieve exclaims as she drags her towards the club.

Obediently, Cora follows. Though, she does pull her phone from the corset as it vibrates. The private number is odd, but she thinks nothing of it and lets it go to voicemail. She does the same with the second ring, since people often check to see if they dialed the right number. By the third ring, however, she's suspicious.

But she still doesn't answer.

Instead, she continues to follow as Vieve pulls her by the hand. It's her night to have fun and let loose. She's can hear the music and feel the bass drop. While she won't be shagging anyone, she can still have a great time.

Except a text telling her to get in the car halts her in her tracks.

Turning, Cora turns to see a black sedan waiting near the curb. The weight of her wings is felt when her shoulders slump, and she tugs out of Genevieve's grasp.

_No…_

"What?" her flatmate questions.

Wetting her lips, Cora holds in a sigh as well as tears. "I can't go."

Hands on her hips, Vieve's brow quirks. "Why not?"

"I'm needed."

Glancing at the car, her friend glares. "Daddy  _Warbucks_  needs you?"

Cora finds herself at a loss for words since she's never heard Genevieve speak so vehemently about Mr Holmes prior. It takes her a full twenty seconds to even attempt a response. "That's not—"

"What are you going to say?" Vieve snaps. "He's been a generous benefactor. You need a job, so of  _course_  you'll go with him."

It doesn't immediately dawn in on Cora that Vieve could be jealous. When it does though, Cora can't fault her for it. The majority of her time is spent working. She rarely sees Genevieve as it is. A simple no would suffice in this situation.

She softly shakes her head and gives a sigh. If she had a choice, it would be Genevieve she was going with. Her lips form the words "I'm sorry", but her voice is nowhere to be found.

"Don't g—" Her flatmate holds up a hand as her gaze darkens. Shaking her head, she turns and enters the club before Cora can respond.

Head down, she walks to the sedan and slides in. Cora looks for Henry but sees there's a dark panel between the front and back seats. If she'd been a tad more observant, she would have realised it's not the normal car she rides in. Henry must have gotten the night off for the children.

Looking over at Mr Holmes, self-consciousness creeps up her spine and into her cheeks as she realises how inappropriately she's dressed. Her employer doesn't need to see her in a form-fitting, pure white corset with a feathery miniskirt that barely covers half her thighs. Her stilettos provide no assistance to the dilemma nor do the feathered wings.

"Thank you for agreeing to this," he says.

_I agreed to nothing._  Cora crosses her arms. "Need me to pick out a pillowcase for your endeavours, Sir?"

"It's understandable you'd be perturbed about working. You will be compensated."

She shoots him a dark glance. "Not everything is about money."

"Going out to find  _sweets_ , were you?" he inquires, and there's a sharp bite in his tone. "You might not have cavities at your next dentist's visit, but I imagine you'd wake regretful in the morning."

That comment stings so much that when he starts talking, she blanks on every word he says. Instead, she flips her phone in her fingers and stares out the window at all those free on Hallows Eve. What she wouldn't give to be among them instead of feeling like a deflated balloon.

"Cora, are you listening?"

His tone snatches her attention, and her jaw tightens. "I don't rightly care."

His eyes scan her before he looks out the window again. "Did you read the paperwork you signed? There are hours  _outside_  of what's scheduled you are  _required_  to work."

"And it clearly stated I'd be notified in advance," she argues and crosses her arms. "This wasn't fair, and you know it!"

"Life is rarely so just."

To that, she doesn't respond. Cora's well versed in drawing the short stick. Life always chooses certain candidates to throw the worst of the worst at, and the worst can be anything. She tries not to think about  _that,_  though. She is grateful for her job. She's glad someone's given her a chance. She's happy to have a bed to sleep in.

When they pull up at a building Cora's not sure she recognises, she turns to him. "What is this place?"

"Most of those who matter to this country will be at this party." Mr Holmes exits the car.

She follows suit and walks next to him. "What am I supposed to do here? Chat? I'm not skilled at that. I'm more like a bat."

"I suggest you use echolocation then."

"You don't seem to understand," she growls and crosses her arms. "I can't do what you can do. You're better off using a seeing eye dog for something like this."

He turns to her, umbrella tip stamping into the ground. " _Don't_  try my patience, Ms Merriman."

Cora bites her tongue and follows him into the building. Inside, they come to a ballroom where groups of people huddle in corners with glasses of punch. Food and drinks line two walls opposite of each other while a large group of tables and chairs are arranged from the back wall to the middle of the room. The middle of the room to the stage in the front seems to have been turned into a barren dance floor.

To Cora, the set up doesn't make a whole lot of sense. There seems to be a lot of lost opportunities, especially with the lack of the decorations and slow music.

Her raised lip and brow meet Mr Holmes' gaze. "Honestly? I gave up a free night for  _this_?"

He takes a deep breath, and she braces to be scolded. "Sir Edwin planned this. Or, rather his smackhead aide. They're never… exciting."

She scoffs. "Pity."

"Think you could do better, Ms Merriman?"

She looks at him. And shrugs one wing. "I don't know. Haven't tried."

There's a dangerous smirk that lines his lips and a gleam in his eye. "You have one month to plan a Christmas event. I'm hosting this year."

She snorts. "You? Host?"

His smirk fades, but the gleam seems to glow. For once, Cora believes she may have crossed the line.

"You are to mingle," he tells her curtly, frost in every word. Drawing himself to his full height, he gives a disapproving look—like a father scolding a child—before walking off.

How she remains standing is beyond her. Emotions crash against her in overwhelming waves, dragging her into the depths. Everything in her wants to break down and sob. She was forced to give up a fun night out for this? Genevieve is livid with her for this? She's selling her soul for this?

Gazing around the room, no one is aware of her presence—which is lucky in light of her outfit. However, none of them would. She is no one in this world.

No one but the servant— _slave?_ —of Mr Holmes.

Grabbing a glass of punch, Cora slumps in a chair and looks at the stark white tablecloth. For a Halloween party, nothing says Halloween. There's no bumping bass, no strobe lights. There's no off-colour Vieve making jokes and finding herself a toy for the night.

At least with Genevieve, she would be having  _some_  sort of fun.

"Disobeying orders?"

Blinking, Cora looks up and decides her night cannot possibly get any worse. There are literally  _hundreds_  of people milling about the room.  _Hundreds_! Half asleep and looking bored. And out of all those potential victims, the brother chooses her.


	14. Line Crossing

Her gaze immediately seeks out John.

"He's taking Rosie 'round for sweets."

_Damn_ , Cora thinks since there's no buffer. She wishes in light of their argument the other day he wouldn't speak to her. That he'd simply avoid her. It would make things  _much_  easier. She wouldn't have to hear whatever rude comment is bound to be next. In order to avoid it, she looks around the crowded room.

Her gaze doesn't stray too far, because she's suddenly aware that the brother won't look at her. For a moment or two, he'll glance at her face, but never her body. She knows he's not entirely prude since he commented on the ugly orange dress, but she does wonder if the outfit makes him uncomfortable.

Guilt floods her veins, warm and cool at the same time. Cora hates when people are uncomfortable. She knows what a horrid feeling it is—like when your skin itches but there's no relief or your stomach is churning from bad food. No matter how rude the brother is, she doesn't want to be the source of his uneasiness.

"You clearly wanted something out of tonight given the outfit. Hopefully, you've bought batteries."

And just like that, the guilt disappears. Face flushed, Cora rises from her seat. She teeters precariously on the stilettos, but it also places her nearly at his eye level which she doesn't mind. "I beg your pardon?"

"You're a lonely woman. It's only natural—"

"Are you  _serious_?" she interrupts and clenches her fists to keep from backhanding the git. Though, punching him is clearly  _not_  out of the question. "This is why the last one turned, isn't it? Because you're bloody insane and wouldn't leave her alone."

One brow quirks as if he's amused. "You don't  _really_  believe that. No…" he nearly hums. "Not after what you've heard."

Cora pauses to take a deep breath. This battle is utterly ridiculous and  _not_  how she wants to spend her already ruined night. Shaking her head, she turns for the door because damned be Mr Holmes' request! Hell, at this point she can probably make it to the club and drink this entire nightmare away.

"You expect everyone to turn a blind eye to this Cora façade?"

Does she fight this? Is it worth it? Probably not…

Crossing her arms, she turns to him. "That name was given to me by my parents. Sorry if it doesn't meet  _your_  standards."

_Arse._

"You are aware you're a terrible liar, yes?"

Cora shouldn't allow his remarks to bother her. No one should be able to get under her skin. After all, there are multiple self-help books on the matter. What she needs to do is leave, but currently, all her willpower is expended in keeping her jaw clamped.

"You're quite good at keeping up this guise," he continues to prod. "I'm sure  _normal_  people believe your gimmick. But we both know what you  _really_  are."

"Are you that  _bored_  with your life you need to live vicariously through others?" she growls, because his attack is anything but fair. If she had to wager, she'd place all her money on the idea Mr Holmes lured her here for this. At the very least, he brought the brother in after she upset him on the car ride.

Regardless, despite the logical side of her brain, her feathers are quite ruffled. Thus, she can't seem to lock her jaw again. "Is this how you get off? Insulting others? You pretend to read them like some psychic at the fair, and everyone relishes in your genius, and throws cash in your face as you delight in their stupidity."

"Psychic at the fair. That's what you think," he says with a slow nod of his head. His gaze settles on hers with the same snake-staring-at-its-prey she's seen from Mr Holmes. "That all?"

Cora hears something in his tone that stops her from responding. She isn't certain what, but her stomach is suddenly churning and her skin crawls.

"Of course, it is. Why would you go on?" His gaze never once leaves hers. She sees the irritation in his eyes telling her she's no more than a pesky gnat. "Mycroft says you're observant, but that you don't enjoy the task.  _Wrong_. You prefer to act as if you're no more observant than the typhlichthys subterraneus who's both blind and deaf."

"Says the man who's responsible for his best friend's wife's death!" she snaps, and her eyes widen. The words taste acidic—not to mention bitter and foul—and she wishes she hadn't said it. She looks at him, mortified beyond reason. Her hand covers her mouth.

The damage is done, though. His eyes glint dangerously as they rake over her in an instant. "You cannot walk in heels, yet you're still having a pass at it. You're attempting to maintain an image that is working poorly for you. You also believe the added height and projection of hips will attract someone of the opposite sex other than some meager, bumbling trust-fund boy. It won't. The angel outfit is not something you bought. No, you can't really afford such things, nor would you save for them. Your friend gave it to you. It was too big on her, and it's too small on you."

Cora stands there, stiff as a statue. She's crossed another line tonight, and this one she believes to be more menacing than the last. Especially as he steps closer.

"And no matter what you lead others to believe," he growls, "your name is  _not_  Cora."

She feels flayed—which is ironic in light of the fact he called her a Southern cavefish. While not everything he said is accurate, there's enough that makes her realise she doesn't see herself correctly. She also recognises her arrogance because she's too prideful to apologise.

Taking a shaky breath, she can only stare at the floor.

"Never try to insult me again," he warns.

Cora should acknowledge that she heard him, but her thoughts are a blur. The world spins which makes any movement dangerous in heels. Sounds grow silent. She has no one to blame but herself.

She created this mess.

Fighting back tears, hairs on the back of her neck prickle. Cora's gaze darts around. Blinking, she swears she sees a man in a canine mask near one of the doors. Her arms drop to the side as the room darkens, only to be lit by flashing lights. Smoke filters in, low and slow before rising towards the ceiling. The speakers reverberate with the sound of a squeaky door and howls as the song changes.

The crowd chuckles. Cora hears murmurs of Sir Edwin creating something exciting for once. Looking over towards the punch bowl, she sees Mr Holmes shaking his head in annoyance. With the look he gives Lady Smallwood, he seems to think nothing is wrong.

A chill runs the length of her spine.

_"You try to scream but terror takes the sound before you make it._ _"_

Cora stiffens and turns, taking slow teetering steps. Her heel catches air, and she trips. A soft gasp escapes her lips as the brother helps her steady herself. His gaze flicks to hers before scanning the room.

_He must sense it, too_ , she surmises.

_"And no one's gonna save you from the beast about to strike. You know it's thriller, thriller night. You're fighting for your life inside a killer, thriller tonight."_

Her face blanches as a memory flickers, lost somewhere in the back of her mind. Cora grabs the brother's arm. "Get _down_!"

She hits the floor. Hard. It'll definitely leave a bruise. However, it's nothing compared to the explosion that rocks the room.

When Cora comes to, the world around is hazy and dark. She tries to move. To escape, but a ceiling beam pins her down. It refuses to budge when she pushes against it. Her feet kick out, heels lost in the disaster. The ringing in her ears drowns out all sound, but she can feel the bass from  _Thriller_.

_Oh God…_

Cora freezes.

Golden eyes ringed in black gaze down. Large teeth are carved into a twisted grin while intricate burgundy swirls break up a white bone skull. Her breath catches as she stares at the ornate canine mask glaring at her.

Her lip quivers as the mask moves closer. Kneels over her. His jacket shifts, revealing the butt of a gun.

A tear slips down her cheek.  _I'm so dead._

Gloved hands graze her skin. She recoils. Turns from him. Shudders.

Then, the beam is gone.

Looking up, the masked man gestures to follow.

Crawling to her feet, she coughs roughly. After a moment, she stumbles after him. Making her way over debris, she heads away from the fire at the opposite end of the room. The ringing fades out as she hears,  _"_ _And the dead start to walk in their masquerade."_

The canine man in a dark three-piece suit continues to guide her through the wreckage.  _Just debris,_  she thinks, ignoring the idea of causalities.

As they come to the doors, Cora stops and looks towards the punch table on her right. People are beginning to rise from the smoke. Their shouts are downed by the music. Their fear, however, rings loud and clear as they rush to the exits.

People pass her, left and right. Pushing—shoving—as they make their escape.

Her heart slams into her rib cage. None of the faces is the one she seeks. The canine man grabs her hand forcing her to look at him.

"Mr Holmes?!" she shouts, sniffing and rubbing at her eye. The man tugs her towards the exit. She shakes her head. "I have to find Mycroft!"

_'Darkness calls across the land, the midnight hour is close at hand…'_

Tugging out of his grasp, she sprints to the punch bowl. It doesn't take her long to find Mr Holmes lying on the ground, unconscious and bleeding. Kneeling next to him, she shakes him to no avail. Grabbing his arm, she stands and pulls.

Halting, a presence is felt on her right. She glances over as the canine man moves into view.

"Please…" she whimpers. The fingers of one hand grasp the cuff of his jacket. The dam breaks and tears rush down her cheeks. Her voice hitches as she begs, "Please! I need to help him."

_"Must stand and face the hounds of hell, and rot inside a corpse's shell…"_

The canine hesitates. Golden eyes are torn with some sort of silent uncertainty. His gaze is fixed on her, though. The world around them silent. Eyes scrunch with a definitive answer. He then lifts Mr Holmes.

Chaos gains momentum around them. Elegant dresses are torn and shredded as women run screaming and sobbing. Men shove their way to the door, stepping over debris and bodies. Fire brigades and emergency services rush in.

Not that it matters. Cora simply follows the canine mask as he exits the crumbling building. Glittering jewels couldn't save these people. Their money didn't protect them. Not even their status kept them safe.

_Here and now, we are equals_ , she thinks and prays Mr Holmes will not be counted amongst the dead.

Outside, the canine mask sets Mr Holmes on the ground. Cora kneels next to her employer, dirty feathers ruffling in the chilled breeze. He's bloodied from head to foot, and she can't tell the extent of the damage. Two fingers press against his throat.

It's faint, but his heart is still beating.

Looking up, the canine mask is gone. Taking his place, an EMT.

In the distance, Cora can hear:

_"…_ _are closing in to seal your doom. And though you fight to stay alive, your body starts to shiver. For no mere mortal can resist. The evil of the thriller…_ _"_


End file.
